Hope and Assets
by qwertygal
Summary: You couldn't say those words when your every move was a betrayal—a betrayal of trust, and a betrayal of hope. No, he couldn't say those words when, if she knew what he *hadn't* been saying, what he had been hiding from her….if she knew *any* of it,—she would hate him. AU, Lyatt
1. Chapter 1

_So, after some deliberation, I have decided to call this tale "AU"._ _It isn't_ technically _non-canon for season one….but honestly, if the show-runners actually decided to *_ go* _this direction in season 2, I'm not sure I'd be able to handle it._ _So, for my own emotional well-being, and for that of anyone who still decides to read this thing, after an intro like this, I'm going with "AU", and I'm sticking to it!_

 _Wyatt POV and Lyatt, although not a traditional "romance" story, multiple chapters._ _I absolutely own nothing, etc., etc._

 _If there were a word more intense than "angst" as a category….I would have used it._

* * *

He stared through the window opposite his couch, looking into the night's blackness. His view, such as it was, contained parked cars, a dumpster, and pavement. Pavement which was now wet, from an unexpected rainstorm. He imagined the dark clouds that must be rolling over his building, moving across the sky. It was taking every ounce of his carefully trained will-power to do battle against the similar clouds that were trying to sweep their way into his consciousness.

Wyatt turned slightly, to glance back toward his bedroom door that was still slightly ajar from when he had left the room, moments earlier. _She_ was still there, sleeping. Her soft breaths were barely audible, competing against the patter of the rain on the window. Suddenly, it was as though his breath had been knocked out of him—so strong was the feeling that swept through him. He gasped with the sensation, knowing that there was no other label for it than happiness—a happiness he hadn't felt in years—brought on by just thinking of her there, in his bed. He closed his eyes, letting the unfamiliar warmth of the feeling permeate his mind and body, really _feeling_ it, categorizing it, storing it away in that compartment in his mind labelled "Lucy".

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime—multiple lifetimes, if he really thought about it—their careful dance had come to that point that must have been written from the beginning—if one believed in things like that.

She had appeared at his door earlier that night, unannounced, ascribing her visit to an inability to quiet her mind after their latest wild Emma chase through time. She had asked to watch a movie, or play a game—anything to slow her mind from racing.

"A game?" he had asked, ushering her into the living room.

"Yeah, a game. I don't know—cribbage, or something."

He chuckled, rubbing his hand across his face in bemusement. "Lucy, with everything you know about me, what possible piece of information have you stored away in that head of yours that would make you think I own a cribbage board?"

From that point forward, Wyatt's memories became rather...muddled. Apparently, somewhere in his statement, had been the magic—whatever it was that Lucy had been waiting for. Even thinking back on it now, standing in nearly the same spot, he had no ability to organize what happened next into any true sequence of events. Instead, there were just images, flashes:

Her—closing the distance between them in a single step, tugging him toward her with her hands at his shoulders; him—raking his fingers through her hair; her—pressing her lips, hot, against his mouth, then sliding them slowly along his neck and collar bone; him—pressing his body against hers; her—running her hands down his back and then up again, pulling his shirt along with them, over his head. And then, it was both of them—moving as one, toward his bedroom, because….well, because she wanted to. And when had he ever been able to deny her _anything_? Particularly when what she so clearly wanted, in that moment, was also everything _he_ wanted, everything he had been wanting since long before he had brought up the topic of possibilities at Mason Industries.

In his bed, their bodies moving together, he found himself lost in her eyes, their dark and seemingly impossible depths gazing into his own, and silently speaking of trust and hope, and something that looked a whole lot like….love.

It was only later, lying tangled in each other's arms, that she had put voice to what he had seen in her eyes. She said—well, she said _something_ about love. Except it was contained in a long string of rapid-fire French, whispered into his ear, so he wasn't exactly sure _what_ she had said….because, after all, that was just so….Lucy. But he knew that he'd caught the word love somewhere in that whispered confession.

He had been about to tell her all the reasons _he_ loved _her_ ….in Farsi, of course….because hadn't turnabout always been fair play with them? But the words had stuck in his throat, with a suddenness that shocked him. Unable to say anything, he did the only thing he could think to do, and tucked her tighter against his chest, holding her tight. Because he knew he couldn't say it….couldn't say any of it.

How could he? How could he say those words to her, with what he had done, with what he was still doing…. _with what he was?_ You couldn't say those words when your every move, your every breath, was a betrayal—a betrayal of trust, and a betrayal of hope. No, he couldn't say those words when, if she knew what he _hadn't_ been saying, what he had been hiding from her….if she knew _any_ of it,—she would hate him.

Wyatt opened his eyes, staring back at the window, watching the raindrops run in rivulets across the glass. It was laughable, really. Him, basking in the summit of his hopes, finally being able to let go of some of the darkness, finally feeling free, finally feeling fully alive—and simultaneously knowing that it was all about to go sideways….spectacularly.

His will-power faded, and the clouds rolled in, full-force. The compartment in his mind labelled "Lucy" was pushed to the side by another, darker, compartment; one without hope and love. This was the compartment that, over the years, had become his own personal prison, and of his own making. Because he only had himself to blame—how this was all going to go.

He had done it to himself, because of weakness—that stupid part of him that wanted, even after _everything_ , to keep hoping.

He knew that he had given up that right, the right to hope, years ago. When he didn't ask the right questions, when he accepted things at face value, and when he had looked the other way. When he had refused to ask why, or to look too carefully at the situation, even though he knew things were too good to be true.

And, after all, things that good didn't happen to guys like him.

He sighed, letting the dark compartment take over his brain. And, so, it seemed, he was destined to do it again. To not stop when things seemed too good to be true, to keep moving forward when he knew he had no right to….

God. She was going to hate him.


	2. Chapter 2

_So, this chapter came a little later than anticipated—had to do a bit of a re-write, because of a continuity issue, and the fact that my framing device "turned on me"!_ _I'm still not happy with the flow of this—but if you can stick with it for the story, I think the later chapters will work better, from a writing perspective._ _The good news?_ _The re-write is a teensy bit less dark than the original concept!_ _I've let some light come in through the cracks….though not so much, in this chapter._

 _Author's Notes pt. 2:_

 _I am not American, and all of my knowledge of US Military chain of command, rank structures, etc. comes from watching M*A*S*H and the occasional war movie….and about 40 minutes of Googling….which just made me realize it is all very complicated, and I don't understand at all!_ _So….I know I have made many errors._ _For any readers who are part of the US Military or have a friend/relative who is, *please* know I mean absolutely no disrespect by these errors—it is just my ignorance on display._

* * *

From Chapter 1:

 _His will-power faded, and the clouds rolled in, full-force._ _The compartment in his mind labelled "Lucy" was pushed to the side by another, darker, compartment; one without hope and love._ _This was the compartment that, over the years, had become his own personal prison, and of his own making._ _Because he only had himself to blame—how this was all going to go._ _He had done it to himself, because of weakness—that stupid part of him that wanted, even after everything, to keep hoping._

 _He knew that he had given up that right, the right to hope, years ago._ _When he didn't ask the right questions, when he accepted things at face value, and when he had looked the other way._ _When he had refused to ask why, or to look too carefully at the situation, even though he knew things were too good to be true._ _And, after all, things that good didn't happen to guys like him._

 _He sighed, letting the dark compartment take over his brain._ _And, so, it seemed, he was destined to do it again._ _To not stop when things seemed too good to be true, to keep moving forward when he knew he had no right to…._

 _God._ _She was going to hate him._

* * *

He hadn`t always divided his reality into compartments—it never would have occurred to him, before. Sure, maybe his childhood and youth hadn`t followed the Hollywood prescribed rules for happiness—maybe plenty of people would even have labelled them as "rough"—but he had managed. He`d managed to get through school, managed to marry the girl of his dreams, and had managed to enlist—starting the only career path he had ever been interested in; and all in short order. Things were good, and his career climbed quickly—he even found himself recruited into Delta Force. So why wouldn`t he see the world as a hopeful place, just like in the movies—where you had a dream, snapped your fingers, applied a little hard work, and it all happened, like magic. Then, just when he began to get comfortable with the idea of things going well, he'd gotten wrapped up in his own contentment—and the idea that somehow he had _earned_ it all. So much so, in fact, that he never saw it—the danger—coming. He didn`t recognize the danger to him, the danger to his family, the danger to his future. He didn`t recognize the risk, and therefore never asked the right questions, not that first day….and not until far later than he should have.

If he'd been paying attention, perhaps he might have even noticed _that_ day….the day, when he first met Agent Daelman, and shaken his hand.

He'd been summoned by his CO, who told him that he had a new opportunity for him. He introduced him to Agent Daelman, NSA, and explained that the agent was running point on a new project—a specialized sub-team being formed from Delta Force trainees. Specialized training, specialized missions, specialized status. So of course, Wyatt ate it up. It had fed his ego, that over-riding notion that he really was _just that good_. And Jess had been so proud. He could still remember her face, when he first told her about being selected—and how she would go on and on about how this was the perfect opportunity for them.

The early months had been everything he'd ever dreamed of, back when he was a kid, watching _Mission: Impossible_ reruns with Grandpa Sherwin. Missions would always follow the same format—Agent Daelman would arrange to meet him, he would ask for the mission objectives, and then he would report back to his team with instructions….and he and his team would always succeed. He could never talk about the specific missions with Jessica, or anyone else, for that matter, but Jess said didn't mind—he'd always admired how strong she was about that aspect of their marriage….and he had been naïve enough, he'd actually _believed_ her, when she said she didn't mind.

And Agent Daelman took care of them, too. There had been an awful time when Jessica's five year old nephew had become sick. The little boy had needed a kidney transplant, something the family was really struggling to manage on their own. When things seemed most dire, suddenly there was Agent Daelman at the door, giving Jessica details on a hospital ready to receive her nephew. The surgery happened only hours later, and the little boy had healed, and was running around doing what little boys do, before Wyatt had even processed what had happened. Later, he had tried to express his family's gratitude to Agent Daelman, but the older man had brushed it aside.

"That's how this works, son," he had smiled. "You look after our missions, and we look after you and your family."

That should have been the first warning. But instead, it had gone completely unnoticed by Wyatt's younger self. Wyatt wanted to smack his younger self. Why, why had he never even _wondered_ about the identity of the "we"?

Would it have made a difference? If his younger self had asked the question? Or was he aready in too deep by then? Strange how clear it all seemed to him now—that question, unasked, had shaped his entire life since that moment. Weren't those life-altering moments and questions supposed to be more….dramatic? Something momentous….to draw your awareness to the fact that it was all about to change? And instead, what was he thinking about, during that significant time? Probably thinking about beer and baseball.

The months that followed had brought more changes—more changes that any reasonably intelligent person would have asked questions about. But of course, _he_ didn't ask any questions, none at all. He was offered new training opportunities—training opportunities that usually required twice his years of service, and yet they suddenly became open to him. He changed teams, and frequently, but he was always the one charged with delivering mission objectives to his new team. And most importantly, it was always Agent Daelman that delivered those mission objectives to him. Warning flag two-hundred-and-fifty-one, likely, if he had been keeping track. But a warning flag that he had ignored, just like all the others.

And yet, at some level, Wyatt knew himself better than that. Even young and stupid Wyatt must have known that something wasn't as it should be, must have recognized that his experience was vastly different than that of his colleagues….but he refused to look behind the curtain. So, what drove that decision? If it wasn't from _true_ ignorance….then from what? Cowardice? It sure as hell wasn't courage.

Gradually, the missions became more intense—transportation of intel through hostile territory, rescues of VIPs caught in impossible situations. And then, some of the missions became nearly unfathomable. Assist and protect person X in transferring monies through country Y….what the hell was that all about, anyway? Gradually, he was given less and less opportunity to work with a team, instead, the missions requiring just his services. And he knew the missions were no longer what he should have expected from being Delta Force.

More and more frequently, Wyatt found himself providing security to meetings of unknown groups of people—large meetings at mansions and country retreats, small meetings in office buildings and public sites. He became expert at sweeping rooms, buildings, and perimeters for vulnerable points and hi-tech and no-tech surveillance—and never was one of his meetings compromised. Then Agent Daelman had asked him expand his role to the protection of high-value personnel….or bodyguard work….as his conscience whispered in his head. Eventually, Wyatt knew that none of it was Delta Force work. It certainly wasn't regular army work, either. Instead, it felt something akin to private military contractor and security work….and Wyatt just tried hard not to think about that. The job kept him busy enough, that it really wasn't even that hard, to not think.

It was the day he realized it had been five months since he'd worked with a team of any kind, that some better part of him finally pushed its way to his consciousness, and he allowed himself to recognize the issue. Slowly, he'd started asking questions, casually, of course. But Agent Daelman always had an answer that seemed plausible, even in its vagueness….and Wyatt always carried out his orders.

Not too long after he started asking questions, Wyatt's world had been rocked when Grandpa Sherwin, the only person in the world that he cared about other than Jessica, had had a stroke. Wyatt had been with him, when it happened, and got him to the hospital quickly. Grandpa Sherwin had been lucky, there were no lasting effects to his language or thinking, but he suffered from significant motor and vision difficulties, that meant he couldn't live on his own; and that he would require extensive rehabilitation. Just as he and Jessica had been re-evaluating _everything_ about their lives, to find a way to help him, Agent Daelman had once again appeared at his door. Long story short, they had found him a spot at the most beautiful rehabilitation facility and seniors' residence Wyatt had ever seen, up the coast in Northern California. Jessica had been over the moon—so proud of the work he did and how he was being rewarded for it. And Wyatt…he had begun to hate himself, just a little bit.

And that, he realized, was probably his first compartment. His "work" compartment that he held out for the public….and for Jessica, he realized shamefully, to examine and boast about. And then there was the _other_ "work" compartment that he kept for himself, the one that was starting to make him feel ill.

* * *

Overcome by that same ill feeling, Wyatt pulled his gaze from the window, instead studying his hands. He hated the fact that he had hidden all of that from Jess. Is she had known….of course she would have supported him. But by not trusting her, he had managed to isolate himself from her….from everyone, really….had even isolated himself from his own feelings. All these years later, had anything really changed? He sighed….there certainly hadn't been any _good_ change. Instead, he had just increased the number of reasons he had to hate himself….increased the number of compartments needed, to allow himself to function, to put up the façade that he was okay, that he was just like everyone else. Would younger Wyatt even recognize himself, these years later? God—would _Jessica_ recognize him, at all?

* * *

But, younger Wyatt had continued to mature, continued to wonder about his place in the world, and he kept at Agent Daelman with questions. And then….it happened. In a wild moment of either inspiration or foolhardiness…. _was there even a difference_? he wondered. He smiled to himself; Lucy would probably just call it was recklessness. Soon after Grandpa Sherwin had been set up in his new digs, Wyatt took the next opportunity to try and pin Agent Daelman to provide a more specific answer to some of his recent "solo" mission asks. He knew that wasn't the way Delta Force was supposed to work. He'd even provided his own ridiculous terms, that he wouldn't keep carrying out his orders, unless he got answers. Daelman had somehow twisted it all around, made Wyatt feel like the United States of America had only asked him to complete those "special" missions because it was thought he could handle it, but if he couldn't, then….

The threat implied in that statement? It was left unspoken….but Wyatt could fill in the blanks.

And then the realization had all come swirling around him….what would happen, if he was no longer Agent Daelman's protégé, if he was no longer part of Delta Force? What would happen to Grandpa Sherwin—there was no _way_ he could afford that place….and what would _Jess_ think? It pained him to even let the thought fully form in his brain, now, but things hadn't been great between them for a few months, at that point. How could they be? When he was never with her, or even in one spot for that matter, for more than a few weeks at a time. And he couldn't talk to her about his job….which meant he couldn't talk to her about his fears or his _hopes_ ….couldn't talk to her about anything. Which made her think he was being aloof….which made her defensive….which made him angry….which caused him to behave in a petty fashion….which he was pretty sure made her feel miserable. But he couldn't even be _sure_ about that, because of how little they really talked. Two things he knew for sure: One—if she was unhappy, it was his fault; and two—he knew the way her face still lit up, whenever she talked to someone about his work, about how he was saving the world. If he was out of Delta Force….what would make her smile then?

So, then came compartment number two. The just-shut-up-and-do-your-job-Wyatt-Logan. The one that just stopped asking questions. It wasn't that he no longer recognized the issues inherent in the things he was being asked to do….but that being fully aware of them, he purposefully ignored them. Hell, he didn't just ignore them—he denied them to himself, as a way of coping.

* * *

Wyatt returned his gaze to the scene outside, watching as the rain drops were illuminated against the street lights. That compartment continued to dog him—it was the compartment that had been on fine display just months ago, when, in true asshole fashion, he had admonished Rufus for worrying about the why—Wyatt had told him that he "wasn't trained in why". Meanwhile, of course, Rufus had been neck-deep in his own crap at the time…..if Wyatt had only realized….they could have compared notes.

And what would Lucy say, if she'd known him back when he was first perfecting this new compartment? He could hear her in his mind, launch into a full lecture. He would cut her off—of _course_ he'd heard of Nuremberg. And she wouldn't care that he wasn't an officer….and neither would he….because that shouldn't have mattered.

The rain continued to beat against the window….and this time, Wyatt refused to let his gaze or his thoughts drift back toward his bedroom door.


	3. Chapter 3

_From Chapter 2:_

 _So, then came compartment number two. The just-shut-up-and-do-your-job-Wyatt-Logan. The one that just stopped asking questions. It wasn't that he no longer recognized the issues inherent in the things he was being asked to do….but that being fully aware of them, he purposefully ignored them. Hell, he didn't just ignore them—he denied them to himself, as a way of coping._

 _Wyatt returned his gaze to the scene outside, watching as the rain drops were illuminated against the street lights. That compartment continued to dog him—it was the compartment that had been on fine display just months ago, when, in true asshole fashion, he had admonished Rufus for worrying about the why—Wyatt had told him that he "wasn't trained in why". Meanwhile, of course, Rufus had been neck-deep in his own crap at the time…..if Wyatt had only realized….they could have compared notes._

 _And what would Lucy say, if she'd known him back when he was first perfecting this new compartment? He could hear her in his mind, launch into a full lecture. He would cut her off—of course he'd heard of Nuremberg. And she wouldn't care that he wasn't an officer….and neither would he….because that shouldn't have mattered._

 _The rain continued to beat against the window….and this time, Wyatt refused to let his gaze or his thoughts drift back toward his bedroom door._

* * *

Chapter 3:

And so it continued-his own version of "normal". The strange thing was, after his brash conversation with Daelman, things from a work perspective seemed to improve. Without warning, he had received a phone call from his old CO—he was being brought back into the regular Delta Force fold, and assigned to a new team. Of course, Agent Daelman was still there—Wyatt was still often taking mission orders from him—but he was back to being part of a real team, and doing work that he _knew_ was important, and that he could be proud of.

That's what he told himself.

Except of course, it was never really that simple. Because he _was_ still given some occasional solo missions. And he _was_ still given the occasional mission with a questionable objective. But these were interspersed sporadically amongst all the truly good work he was being asked to do.

And Wyatt _knew_.

He knew exactly what Daelman, or perhaps he and his associates, the mysterious "they", were doing. The time he spent, doing the work that he was proud of, meant that he was even more likely to look the other way, when Daelman gave him another one of his more crazy-assed mission. Yes, Wyatt knew what he, or perhaps they, were doing….and _still_ he let them do it. Worse yet, he had convinced himself he was _happy_ about it, because it was better than it had been.

He had to give it to Daelman….and whoever the hell he was working for….they certainly had a flair for psychological manipulation.

During this time, things had gotten better with Jess too. Wyatt was smart enough to understand how that worked….worthwhile work made him a whole lot better of a human being to spend time with. And he had been grateful for that— _grateful that this outside force was somehow able to manipulate his whole life_.

What the hell had been _wrong_ with him?

He may have convinced himself he was happier, at the time, but he also knew, just under the surface, he was truly learning to hate himself. He had allowed Daelman control his whole life, allowed him and his group dictate what made Wyatt happy, what made him sad….or what made _Jess_ happy or sad. He had allowed Daelman to become the puppet master of his life, and that of everyone around him, as well.

At the time, it seemed easier to hate himself, then to break the cycle.

Several months later, there was another "Significant Moment" in Wyatt's life. But, yet again, he had missed its significance entirely, at the time.

Wyatt had been home for a couple of weeks, enjoying a good stretch of domesticity with Jessica, when he was contacted by Agent Daelman.

"He promised, no mission," he had told Jess, as she had started fretting, the moment Wyatt told her Daelman had called, "He just said he wanted to talk."

Wyatt had gone in to Pendleton, locating Daelman in a nearly deserted mess hall, eating his breakfast. The older man smiled, as he approached.

"Wyatt, good to see you, sit. Have you had breakfast?"

Wyatt nodded in affirmation, trying to process the fact that Daelman had just used his first name. He didn't even know that the man _knew_ his first name. He sat across the table from him.

"I wanted you to take a look at something, for me." Daelman pushed some papers across the table to him. "Important meeting happening again at the Winston House….you remember it?"

"Yeah….ran security there a few months back for your….group. It was a good set-up, easy to secure."

"I remembered you said that—so we're using it again."

"And you want me to run security?"

"No, I don't think that's necessary, like you said, it was easy to secure. We've contacted someone else to do the security work. This is their plan—we just wanted to know what you thought of it."

Wyatt looked at the papers and schematics, everything seemed in order. He tapped the papers back into a neat pile, offering them back to Daelman, and quietly tried to figure out what the hell any of it meant. If they didn't need him for security, but they wanted his approval of the _new_ person's security plan….he watched Daelman carefully, as he sipped his coffee, but Wyatt couldn't read anything on his face to give him any more information.

Daelman took his time with a few forkfuls of egg, and then took a long sip of coffee, before looking back toward Wyatt. "Like I said, no immediate mission you need to worry about….or that Jess needs to worry about."

Wyatt forced himself not to flinch with Daelman's casual reference to his wife, and then waited for more information from the man. After another moment of silence, Daelman spoke again.

"Been thinking about this for a while. There's a….group, a group of people that I think you should meet."

"Sir?"

"Well, as you've intimated in the past, I represent a group of powerful people with specific interests within the US, the world, really. I know you're aware that you've provided security for this group before, and that some of your missions have been related to their work. You've questioned some of the reasons for your past missions…."

"Which I shouldn't have done."

"No, no, it's alright….I certainly understand some of these missions have been….irregular, compared to your other Delta Force operations. But, that's my point. I thought you might feel more comfortable with things….if you were more a part of them. Perhaps if you understood some of the things you're fighting for."

Wyatt's internal surprise must have registered on his features, because Daelman began to chuckle.

"Look, Wyatt…."

 _There he went again, using his first name._

"….The US military is a very large organization, with a multitude of interests and _interested groups_. My group is a small piece of the puzzle, but an important one. You've proved a valuable asset to the group for some time now—I think you've proved yourself worthy of this next step. I have no children of my own you know, but my associates, well, they are always interested in bringing the younger generation into the fold." He handed him a card. "There's a….business meeting and dinner being held, Wednesday, at the Winston House. I'd like you to attend with me, as my guest….since you're comfortable with the security plan." He nodded back to the papers, and then returned to finishing his eggs. Without another word, he stood to leave. Taking his coat from the chair beside Wyatt, he started walking toward the door, but turned, just before the door. "Wyatt, dress to impress….but civilian clothes would be appreciated." And then he left.

Wyatt had had no idea what to even begin to categorize this new turn of events.

He had tried to explain it to Jess later that day.

"So did he _invite_ you, or demand your presence?" she asked.

"Don't know….I mean, he said he'd like me to attend….but he didn't really give me a chance to say no."

"And dress to impress?"

"I don't know about that, either….but when I ran security at the last meeting at this place….everybody was pretty swanky….James Bond Casino Royale type of thing."

"Well," Jess had clucked, "if you're going, we're going to have to go shopping."

Not knowing what else to do, he made the decision to go.

He remembered that Jess had seemed more nervous than him that night, as he got ready. She had stood in the doorway of the bedroom, completing an inspection that would have made his drill sergeant back in Basic proud. As she fiddled with his cuff links for the fourth time in the span of three minutes, she hummed just under her breath.

"Remember, no talk about anything controversial….no religion, no politics….well, I guess in a group like this they might expect you to talk politics?"

"I have no idea what this group wants to talk about, Jess. I'll probably just sit and listen, anyway….I don't even know if this is a good idea."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, slightly shady Agent Daelman wants me to meet a bunch of his friends, and specifies it's civilian? A group of military people, sure. A group of politicians, slightly more intimidating, but really, no problem—nothing I haven't done before, after some Delta Force missions. But he didn't specify _either_ military or politicians….so who the hell are they? I tell you, it's….not normal."

"That's just 'cause _you're_ not normal Wy," she beamed.

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"In a good way, silly. Look, Agent Daelman sees something in you, and he wants you to meet some presumably powerful people. He's thinking about your future, obviously. You've worked hard for him, and he's been impressed with your work for our Country, he's impressed with the way you represent Delta Force." She started straightening his tie.

He batted her hand away, playfully. "I know how to tie a tie!" he pulled her in for a hug. "Okay, I will go sit with these stuffed shirts…."

She sighed, "You make it sound like such a chore….look at it this way, what's the worst that could happen?

* * *

Car tires screeched on the street outside his building, followed by the drone of an engine, as the car sped away again, into the darkness. Wyatt's head snapped back to the bedroom door, as he no longer heard Lucy's even breaths. _Did the noise wake her?_ As he approached the door, he heard a gentle rustle of blankets, and then her even breathing returned, accompanied by the lightest of snores. It should have brought another wave of happiness to his heart, to know she was sleeping comfortably there, in his bed. Perhaps it could have brought that happiness to his heart, if he hadn't already allowed the darkness brought on by the weight of his past to take over all of his emotions that night. Unbidden, tears sprang to his eyes, as he walked back into the living room, and sank down onto his couch. How the hell had he let _any_ of this happen?

* * *

So—all dressed up in his civilian clothes, cuff links and tie—he had spent the next four hours….in a fucking Rittenhouse meeting. And he hadn't even realized it.

But then, by that time, he'd spent over two years working as a Rittenhouse asset, and he hadn't realized _that_ either….so he was a true idiot.

For the millionth time since he had first heard the name Rittenhouse uttered, by Lucy Preston, of _all_ people, he had tried to call to mind details of the evening—anything that could be useful to her, to his team. But, he could never think of anything of value. And how precisely he would even bring up the topic, if he _had_ remembered something, he had no idea—I mean, 'hey guys, this one time, at a Rittenhouse meeting'….wasn't exactly going to work.

Daelman had spent the evening ushering him around, introducing to this person and that. Most of them seemed to have an idea of who he was, which was….disconcerting. He remembered that much of the evening's discussion had centred around European financial structures, something that he couldn't have participated in intelligently, even if he wanted to; and without really knowing the names of the players or the larger contexts involved, he couldn't remember any of the details of the discussions. And it was only in hindsight that he understood the strangest part of all….while Daelman was doing all those introductions, he had managed to never use anyone's name, except Wyatt's own. Names—he might have remembered _those_ ….but nope, no names at all.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's notes:_

 _Thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing—I can't tell you how much I appreciate it! Many have mentioned wanting to know how Lucy feels about this….and we will get there, but not quite yet. Wyatt's back story kept growing and growing….but I think the eventual payoff is worth it! I hope you do too._

 _So, on to Chapter 4. Or, the one where things get better and worse, all at the same time._

* * *

 _From Chapter 3:_

 _Daelman had spent the evening ushering him around, introducing to this person and that._ _Most of them seemed to have an idea of who he was, which was….disconcerting._ _He remembered that much of the evening's discussion had centred around European financial structures, something that he couldn't have participated in intelligently, even if he wanted to; and without really knowing the names of the players or the larger contexts involved, he couldn't remember any of the details of the discussions._ _And it was only in hindsight that he understood the strangest part of all….while Daelman was doing all those introductions, he had managed to never use anyone's name, except Wyatt's own._ _Names—he might have remembered those_ _…_ _.but nope, no names at all._

* * *

Chapter 4:

It was another two weeks, before Wyatt heard from Agent Daelman again. This time, it was for a mission. An extensive and complex mission. Overseas. Agent Daelman had ball-parked at least five months, if he and his team were to be successful. Wyatt knew one thing for sure….Jess wasn't going to be happy.

The next day, Wyatt was introduced to his new team—no one he had met before. They were told that they had all been specifically selected for the job. Two weeks later, he and his team had been shipped out to Germany. The good news? Wyatt had once taken an "introduction to German" course, as a part of his early training with the military. The bad news? Between him and his twelve team members, that was _all_ they had that could be considered an applicable background skill. Which should have warned him right there….how could they possibly have been hand-selected, as the best team for the job? But Wyatt remembered not worrying about that, at the time. He hadn't even been worried about the language barrier, at the time—after all, he had figured what better way to learn a language then through sheer force of necessity? Good thing he'd always had a bit of a knack for learning languages.

To begin with, the mission itself was rather nebulous, which wasn't a problem for Wyatt, as he had begun many Delta Force missions feeling the same way. Daelman had given him a brief outline of things, before he left for Germany. Apparently there was a very private, very secluded compound in central Bavaria that, for several years, had held a small para-military multi-national force. The group had been allowed to operate and train from within the compound. Why? Wyatt didn't know, he didn't need to know—although it didn't take Rufus or a rocket scientist to figure out that there must have been some sort of financial or political benefit to someone in a position of importance, in order to let it all happen. Agent Daelman had explained that, for some time, the group in the compound had just been there, running training exercises and practising manoeuvers. Recently, however, their activities had changed, and concerns had been raised that they were apparently organizing for _something_. The fear was that a nearby NATO base could be at stake. So, the German government, NATO, and the US government, which also had nearby bases, had asked for the operation. It was also why Wyatt's team was not currently representing any nation, but instead like the group in the compound, they were a multi-national force, themselves. At least….that was the background Daelman gave him.

Daelman had also identified seven specific targets who were living and working within the compound. Identified only by numbered codes, Wyatt's team had been told the primary objective, once they infiltrated the compound, would be to grab these seven targets. Apparently intelligence identified them as being ring-leaders in the group, and Daelman assured that, if captured, the group at the compound would no longer be a threat to the sovereign nation that housed it, nor to the broader international community.

But, even then, it wasn't that simple—of course it was never that simple. Turns out, there was an additional plan. While still Stateside, after his team had been briefed by Daelman and two other men Wyatt hadn't met before, Daelman had pulled Wyatt aside. In private, he had told him his mission's other purpose. There were political prisoners of import to a certain group…. _he didn't say which group, but Wyatt could guess_ ….being held captive in another nation. Daelman said that, if his team captured the German compound marks, not only would they neutralize the immediate threat, but they would be able to trade them for the safe return of the political prisoners to US soil. The prisoner exchange had already been organized with the other country….all they were waiting for was the human "merchandise".

And that was that. Grab the high value targets to neutralize the threat, and to allow for Daelman's group to use those same targets as human bargaining chips. Everything else—particularly the _how_ of it all, was pretty much up to Wyatt.

* * *

Once in Germany, Wyatt was given strict protocols for filtering his new intelligence back to another intelligence group working with Daelman in the US. Daelman would connect with Wyatt periodically, regarding updated mission parameters. As Daelman gave him more information, it became clear that the operation would be very complex, with lots of moving parts. It even included some "wild card" pieces, like an "inside man", living in the small village that was closest to the mysterious compound, and who apparently made frequent deliveries there. Surely Daelman had some of this information prior to its start, and yet, he didn`t give Wyatt that information right away. Instead, the information was doled out in pieces. Each conversation, there was a new piece of information, and a new piece of the puzzle for Wyatt. He felt like he was operating blindfolded, feeling his way along….but somehow it eventually also just felt _natural_ , even normal. _Just make is up as you go, Logan_.

Wyatt had divided his team into two groups—one for on-site research, one for reference research. With the help of Daelman's "inside man", his on-site group was able, very gradually, to gain access to the compound through supposedly legitimate avenues. They acted as gardeners, electricians, delivery men, truck drivers….anything that allowed them to get visuals on the compound's different buildings, transport routes, entrance points, weak points, and….most importantly….security systems. When not directly infiltrating the compound, his men were assigned to monitor the movements of people in and around the compound, from just beyond its perimeter.

His other group researched and accessed what they could of original building permits and blueprints. The spoke with electricians, plumbers, roads department personnel, _anyone_ who may have assisted with the construction or renovation of the compound….which hadn't been easy, given the group's lack of German. But, as Wyatt had predicted, necessity truly _was_ the mother of invention, and they'd managed. Some of the men memorized their questions phonetically, and just hoped the interviewees stayed on point with their responses. Even Wyatt was surprised, when, more often than not, this actually worked. And when it didn't work? Well, the results tended to be pretty hysterical, when Wyatt listened to the tape play-back. But even in those situations, the tradespeople being questioned were from a large city, and seemed to accept the notion of foreigners asking them questions without too much concern….they usually switched to English themselves, the moment they realized the person that was interviewing them didn't know their "kopf" from their "arsch".

Like most operations of this sort, there was also a lot of just….waiting. Which was the best time to gather what was probably the most important type of intelligence….exactly what the hopefully nosy locals from the small village thought about things. Unlike the more formal interviews with the tradespeople, Wyatt knew that broken German wasn't going to work for this….so he took it on, himself. The "inside man" arranged a cover for him, about being a relative staying in the village. And Wyatt took it from there….spending time sitting in restaurants, coffee shops, gas stations, and shops—just talking to people. His job was to charm the socks off of as many people as he could, to make connections with the locals who _may_ have information useful to the mission, even if they themselves were completely unaware that they had such essential information.

And then, of course, came the real job. Integrating all of the information to formulate some sort of plan—to find the cleanest way, given what was _known_ of the security….while being prepared for other security that undoubtedly was there, but _not_ known….to extract the seven targets with a minimum of fuss.

Seven targets….who still remained completely unknown to Wyatt and his group. He had broached the subject on a couple of occasions with Agent Daelman, asking for names, photos, anything to help them with their preparations. But Daelman always declined, said it wasn't something he needed to know at that time.

Wyatt's men had, by this point, specifically identified most of the people within the compound—giving them nicknames to help keep everyone straight. They'd also determined that the compound was extensive, and that entire families had been living there for some time. And, though it was also relatively self-sufficient, on several occasions, Wyatt's men had identified some of the nicknamed compound people in town, shopping, eating, or just strolling down the main street. With this revelation, Wyatt made a decision. The next time Daelman contacted him, Wyatt had argued again for information on the identity of the targets—hell, maybe they'd see one of them at the grocery store, and just be able to nab them there—but Daelman stood firm. He told Wyatt that the seven targets did not leave the compound, ever. He then reminded Wyatt of the operational objectives, for the team to find a way to infiltrate the compound, and, when the exact location of the seven targets was known, make the grab and leave again….of course with as little ruckus as possible.

A little over a week later, Daelman contacted Wyatt again. He let him know that his own intel— _where the hell was that information even coming from_ , Wyatt had wondered, not for the first time—had pointed to a three story building in the back corner of the compound as a prime location for the operation's "grab". His intel said that the seven targets could be found in that building, together, with relatively little security, at specific times throughout the day.

So, Wyatt had his on-site men focus on this building. It was proving to be very difficult to gain access to it, but the good news was that it could easily be cut off from the rest of the compound, if the road was blocked and some sort of make-shift fence was constructed. Eventually, with the help of a small bribe to an administrative assistant, they had accessed the building's blueprints, sharing them with Daelman. Once again, Daelman's mystery intelligence came through for them, identifying the room in the building to target. It had turned out to be a real break for Wyatt's team—the windows at the back of the room were directly in front of what had been identified as the weakest point in the compound's perimeter, and were only about 100 yards from a thick forest. An _easy_ extraction point. With a new moon expected in five days, and multiple feasible entrance points already identified….their plan had finally come into place.

The morning of the operation, he had received another call from Daelman. He went over the details of that night's plan again. Daelman assured him, given his other intelligence, that, at the time selected, the targets would be in the room, with very little security.

"This is good work, Sergeant," he had said. "I'm proud of you."

"Well, we haven't succeeded yet."

"You will, I'm not concerned….you've done all the hard work already. When you get back, my colleagues would like you to come talk to them again—maybe tell them about your adventures."

Wyatt felt an undefinable chill run down his back. "We'll keep the NATO base safe, sir."

"About that, Wyatt," Daelman began, "This is just for you to know, understand? Not for your team. It seems the threat against the NATO base may have been over-estimated. But, don't worry; the mission is still green-lit from the highest levels. We have a timeline established for the exchange of these targets for our political prisoners. We won't get another chance at it. That prisoner swap is essential, so we need to make sure this works."

"Also….I have another mission parameter that you _do_ need to share with your team. Even though we are exchanging the targets, we feel that we can make a successful exchange without all seven. It would be nice to have all seven, but not essential. What _is_ essential is that there be no loose ends on this one. So, if any of the targets give you or your men trouble—if they attempt an escape from your custody….you tell your men that the order is shoot to kill…..do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," he replied. And the call was disconnected.

* * *

In the business of making preparations over the ensuing few hours, Wyatt hadn't had the time to truly consider the implications of these two new pieces of information. It was time for the "shut-up-and-do-your-job" compartment to do its thing, and get him through this.

They had gathered, Wyatt and his team, at their make-shift command centre in an old barn. Wyatt had ensured everyone knew their duties—two would be creating a diversion by starting a brush fire on the opposite side of the compound from the target building, while four others would set up a road block, to slow any resistance response from reaching the building. Wyatt and the six remaining soldiers would then storm the castle, as it were. He also gave them Daelman's new operational parameter—shoot to kill any targets attempting escape. If the team members were surprised by this, they didn't show it. Then he delivered a fairly standard mission pep talk. Standard for him, anyway. He had learned early in his career that he was good at that sort of thing—that he could make people feel more confident in their abilities, and more focused on their mission objectives, just by talking to them. Once the team was suitably "pepped"….they were ready to go.

In the dark, Wyatt's team entered the compound without much difficulty, manoeuvering around the out-buildings closest to the compound perimeter. Most of the activity in the compound appeared to be isolated to the main building in the centre, which Wyatt knew housed meeting rooms. After the team had cleared the perimeter without notice, the two members charged with starting the brushfire veered right, heading toward a small copse of trees. The rest of the group continued along the edge of the narrow road that they knew would bring them to their target building. They rounded a corner, finally able to see it—there were lights in only a few rooms, and Wyatt was happy to see that it was in the correct wing of the building, given the intel they were working with. Once they passed the last track intersection before the building, the four make-shift roadblock and fence builders peeled off, away from the larger group.

 _And then there were seven….one for each target_ , he mused. They found the side door, unguarded as promised, and he was able to easily work the lock that allowed his team inside. It was a kitchen and storage area, in darkness, and empty. Hoping their luck would continue, Wyatt moved to the front of the column, motioning his team along the back hallway. Without warning, a siren sounded.

Wyatt held out his hand, stopping their forward movement, and listened. "It's the compound fire alarm," he whispered. They stood still, for several more moments, and could hear personnel from the building rushing down staircases and out the front door, presumably to assist with the brushfire, that he could only hope was really, really large. As if in answer to his question, his short-wave beeped twice—a message that the other two sections of his team had both been successful in their assignments, made it out of the compound, and were on their way to the rendezvous point.

Once the building was silent again, he moved his group forward. They moved through hallways, sweeping the connecting halls for guards….or at this point, for any sign of life….but they saw no one. Wyatt was beginning to worry….this was seeming too easy…. _how could the targets be here, if no one else was?_ He hesitated again-just before they entered the central room that he knew they had to cross, to access the targets. It was large, with no good place to take cover. Not ideal. But his team knew what they were doing, and they managed to cross the room silently, and quickly, until they hovered around a hall entrance at the other side.

They had arrived. And, as if to remind them of that fact, they saw their first other humans since they had entered the building. A group of three men and a woman, standing just outside the door to their target room, talking animatedly. It was hard to follow, but, as best as Wyatt could tell, they were talking about a spectacular brush fire on the compound—nothing about the military men who, at that moment, were standing just twenty feet away from them. Four of his team members moved in silently, and managed to render the residents unconscious before any of them realized anything was amiss. They were tied together, away from the entrance of the large room. Precautionary measure only, as Wyatt sure as hell hoped his team would be long gone from here, with their targets in hand, before any of them woke.

Then it was time.

Wyatt counted the men down, and they burst into the back room with timed precision to find….

Seven children, in a dormitory-style bedroom.

Wyatt hesitated, blinking—they were boys and girls of different ages, possibly between eight and twelve. _What the fuck was going on?_

But then there had been no time to think further—thankfully, his shut-up-and-do-your-job compartment had happily taken over, meaning that he didn't _have_ to think about it, about _any_ of it. He grabbed the small hand nearest to him, and motioned to his team members to do the same. He started marching the small person…. _or dragging them?_...to the back of the room, to the long row of windows that were their exit plan. Most of the targets seemed too stunned to make any commotion at all, although he noticed a couple of his team had clapped their hands over their targets' mouths, and from somewhere in the back came a whispered order to remain silent.

As Wyatt and several others worked to jimmy open the windows, while still maintaining control of their targets, he heard a whispered _Shit!_ From behind him. Spinning around, he saw a team member holding up what appeared to be some sort of cellular device.

"….Open channel," he was saying, "Sitting on the cabinet over by the door. Chances are somebody, besides the four out in the hall, is monitoring this thing."

"Crap. Okay everybody gotta move….now!" The windows were opened quickly, as they were no longer worrying about being quiet, and the team started pushing their targets through them. Then they were free of the building and over the fence, moving toward the tree line. He scanned his men—all team members accounted for, as well as seven targets. They were only two metres from the trees when everything went to hell. Shouts and vehicle noises sounded from the compound behind them, and they had to run for the cover of the trees. A gun shot rang out in the distance. It sounded like it had struck metal….were they taking out the road block? Wyatt stood at the treeline, watching to ensure his men and their targets got to safety, hidden by the trees. The voices in the compound had become quiet again, but he knew it wouldn't last long.

For some reason that he still didn't understand to this day, in that moment, his gaze dropped from his team to that of the small person—the little girl-beside him. It was as though time stopped, and he could hear his heart drumming loudly in his ears, as he really looked at her for the first time. She was tiny, no more than eight years old. In shock, he tried to release her hand, but she kept hanging on, her grip tight on his hand. She had the largest….the deepest brown eyes he'd ever seen—and she stared up at him, full of _trust_.

The voices in the distance started up again, and so did his perception of time. There was another gun shot, and the sound of vehicles moving quickly toward them. The noise must have emboldened one of the older boys in the group—as Wyatt heard him shout, screaming for help. As his soldier tried to silence him, the boy slammed himself against Wyatt's man, and yanked his hand away from his captor, starting to run back toward the compound.

Again, for Wyatt, time seemed to almost stop, his heart pounding, as he saw his man raise his service weapon toward the terrified boy. Daelman's words were ringing in his ears…. _shoot to kill_. Something shattered inside of Wyatt–something he recognized later as his shut-up-and-do your job compartment.

He heard another voice, yelling. Time returned to normal speed again, as he recognized the voice as his.

"No – stop….STOP. Everyone abort, abort NOW. Release the targets—meet back at the rendezvous."

With relief he saw his man lower the weapon, and then chaos reigned, as the children started running for the compound, and his team members started running deeper into the trees. He met the little girl's eyes again— _What was she still doing here?_ He knelt down on the grass and begged her, in German, to return to her room. She looked at him for another heartbeat, with questioning in her eyes, and then she turned away from him and ran, joining the others. Without another thought, Wyatt did the same, racing toward the cover of the waiting woods.

He had little memory of the rest of that night. There were flashes of running through the trees, and of counting as his men gathered at the rendezvous—everyone had made it. He could recall a brief moment of understanding that there was no noise from any pursuing force….that they seemed to be alone. What he did truly remember, was the harrowed and haunted looks on the faces of his team, tinged with something that could only be labelled as relief, when they met his eyes.

* * *

He had been returned to the States almost immediately, and it was no surprise when he received a message from Daelman, demanding to meet.

"I don't know what the hell you think you were doing."

"The situation was chaotic….," Wyatt began.

"Bullshit." barked Daelman. "The situation was a full-on charlie foxtrot! We have the report from our inside man, and from your team members, might I add—you purposefully scuttled this mission. Do you have any idea how long people have been working on that—" he broke off.

Wyatt could feel the anger radiating from the older man.

"Your team has been discharged….honourably, if they stay true to their confidentiality agreement and keep their mouths' shut."

"But, they were only doing what I…."

"Oh believe me, Sergeant, I'm aware. So, the question remains, what to do with you."

"You could always discharge me, too."

Daelman laughed. "Do you really think that's the way this is going to go? The amount of time, the amount of expense, that went in to planning that little mission that you just subverted? It's nothing compared to the time and expense that we have invested in _you_. No, that's not the way this is going to go, at all."

He slammed his palm against the door, head inches from Wyatt's face. "You need to get back in the game, son. You have a job to do, and orders to follow. It is not your place to question the mission objectives. And don't give me a sob story about that operation….you do what needs to be done….what you're told to do. You don't get to think about what's _right_. You're not the Lone Ranger."

 _Yep, he'd actually said that._

But Daelman wasn't finished with his rant. "Things are always going to get _messy_ , son….and that's when you need to follow your orders. I can't believe this….I _trusted_ you to get the job done. Hell, I _introduced_ you to my associates….thought you might be able to find a place there! You'll be assigned another mission, shortly. And this one I expect you to actually carry out!"

True to Daelman's word, two weeks later, he received orders for another mission. A solo mission this time, but another operation centred on capturing two targets for the purposes of a prisoner exchange, and again, with an order of "shoot to kill", if faced with any resistance. As though it was some sort of personal challenge from Daelman to him-some sort of sick and twisted game or test….this mission's targets were two leaders of a pacifist religious order, living on a mountain top in Chile, who had no intention of leaving with Wyatt quietly.

So he scuttled that one, too.

He was half convinced they were just going to leave him, up there on that mountain top. _Maybe he would live with his erstwhile targets, they seemed nice_.

But they didn't leave him there, and two days later, Wyatt was once again back in San Diego. Needless to say, he was in no frame of mind for cheery conversation with his wife….and she definitely noticed. But, as always, it seemed, he couldn't _say_ anything about what was really bothering him. Two whole days passed, before Daelman called him in for a report.

This time, the clash between the two of them was one for the ages.

Wyatt had made the decision to take the offensive—after all, what could Daelman possibly do to him now?

"What are you going to do?" Wyatt had ranted at the older man, "Court Marshal me? You can't, can you? Because there is no fucking way these missions are authorized by anything resembling a legitimate chain of command or acceptability measurement!"

Daelman laughed at him. "Son, you're a prized asset to my group. We're not going to Court Marshal you….what a waste, and what an _expense_ that would be. Do you have any idea how much you've embarrassed me, Wyatt? I put my reputation with my associates on the line for you with this mission….and then you go and…. Maybe I _was_ wrong about you."

Wyatt shook his head, slowly. "I'm done." He turned, about to move toward the door.

With surprising strength, Daelman grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around until they were facing each other again.

"It doesn't work that way, son. We _made_ you—you'll do what we say."

He shook off his arm, or what are you going to do, kill me? You already said I was too valuable to Court Marshal. I'm going back to Pendleton, talk to whoever I can find with the most brass, and let them know about your little operations…."

"Do you honestly believe you're the first asset to have these thoughts? It's never going to happen….you have no idea how much influence we have, what we can do. We made you-everything you _have_ , everything you _are_ is because of us."

"And what, you can destroy me, too?"

Wyatt felt the first wave of worry run through him, as Daelman stepped back, and became still. He nearly whispered, "One day, you may find yourself with nothing except us. While killing you would be expensive, leaving you with nothing _but_ us? That, my friend, is almost free."

And two weeks later, Jess was dead.

* * *

 _Okay guys….this chapter was super hard for me._ _So tough to find the line between enough information that the reader knows what I'm talking about, yet not so much information that the reader goes to sleep!_ _Please use the box, and tell me what you thought—the good, the bad, and the ugh-ly!_


	5. Chapter 5

_Content warning on this one, guys—brief mention of suicidal thoughts. If you want to skip that part, it starts with the paragraph beginning "He did have one very clear….". You can rejoin the story at the single-line paragraph of "Months went by like that…."_

* * *

 _From Chapter 4:_

 _"It doesn't work that way, son. We made you—you'll do what we say."_

 _He shook off his arm, or what are you going to do, kill me? You already said I was too valuable to Court Marshal. I'm going back to Pendleton, talk to whoever I can find with the most brass, and let them know about your little operations…."_

 _"Do you honestly believe you're the first asset to have these thoughts? It's never going to happen….you have no idea how much influence we have, what we can do. We made you-everything you have, everything you are is because of us."_

 _"And what, you can destroy me, too?"_

 _Wyatt felt the first wave of worry run through him, as Daelman stepped back, and became still. He nearly whispered, "One day, you may find yourself with nothing except us. While killing you would be expensive, leaving you with nothing but us? That, my friend, is almost free."_

 _And two weeks later, Jess was dead._

* * *

Chapter 5:

The next part of his life wasn't lived as a whole person. It wasn't lived in compartments, either. For Wyatt, all he could remember was living in blackness. At some level, he was aware that things were happening, around him. When she was still officially missing, he remembered the media interviews and the well-meaning friends and colleagues hovering everywhere, somehow making things worse. _Officially_ missing didn't mean anything to Wyatt though, because somewhere in that blackness, he recognized the truth….he knew they were never going to find her alive. And it was all because of him….because of his actions….because of letting himself get swept up in Daelman's world.

When they did find her body, the blackness seemed somehow to become even deeper. He had _no_ memories from the first day, though he supposed he must have existed through it. On the second day, the fact that he had been arrested for her murder did manage to permeate the darkness. He had been the last to see her alive, he and Jess had had a huge argument—in public, and there were multiple witnesses attesting to the fact that he had been drinking, and angry. In the darkness that filled and surrounded him, this new turn of events didn't really concern him. In fact, it somehow seemed appropriate. He certainly didn't need to worry about those hovering friends and colleagues anymore.

A few days later, he was released, with all charges dropped. He had a vague impression of the lawyer explaining it to him—blood at the scene, not a match for Jess or for him….police would continue to investigate. But what did any of it matter? _Like they were ever going to find anything_. The local police had no idea what they were dealing with.

And just like that, he was sent back to the home he had shared with Jess. Except it was no longer a home, because he was alone. He was put on mandatory leave from Delta Force too, but that was just another thing that didn't matter….yet another item on the list of things he couldn't bring himself to care about.

So, there he found himself. Sitting in an empty house….with nothing to do but drink, and think, in the blackness.

* * *

Gradually, as weeks passed, the blackness ebbed….but only to be replaced by a fuzzy beige nothingness. Wyatt wasn't sure it was any better. At least the blackness had been _something_. But nothing….what was he supposed to do with that?

He did have one very clear, very distinct memory from that time. Not too long after even his blackness had been taken from him, he could remember sitting on his couch, his bottle empty—just staring at his service weapon. He still remembered the feeling of the thought forming from the nothing, and filtering its way into his consciousness…. _there was an option_.

Except it _wasn't_ an option….could never be an option…what would Jess think? He had no idea how long he had sat there….just staring at it, as the nothingness swirled. Then, all at once, the nothingness had been displaced by a wave of feelings—hopelessness, grief, anguish and heartache—that overwhelmed him. He had groaned, holding his head in his hands, tears hot on his face until he abruptly jumped from the couch, grabbing his weapon with shaking hands. He looked at it, for a moment, feeling the weight of it, watching the play of light from his lamp off the metal, letting the coldness seep into his fingers….

Decision made, he strode toward his bedroom, and rummaged under his bed, until he found his lock box. Placing the weapon in the box, he locked the box, setting a new random combination number that he wrote down on a slip of paper. He then put the box in the back of the small linen closet in his bedroom, which he never used anyway, and locked _that_ door with a key. Hands still shaking, he placed the closet key in the washroom medicine cabinet above his sink, and then returned to the living room, where he taped the box combination to the back of a picture of Jess.

It couldn't be an option ….because of Jess' voice in his head, and because of his own inner voice joining in chorus with hers….but he also knew that he couldn't trust himself to keep listening to those voices during those times when the nothingness filled every part of him. Why the hell did no one think to take it away from him, when they sent him off on his leave? They'd taken his security pass and his mess hall card….but let him keep his weapon?

Some might have seen that decision, that moment, as a small victory….but Wyatt knew better. Because after that? After that, he would sit on his bed for hours….just staring at that locked closet door.

Months went by like that—the nothingness, the alcohol, and the staring at that damn door.

Grandpa Sherwin had been calling weekly during that time. But his Grandpa had never been much of a "phone talker". After all, he would say, they're really just for business and emergencies. And since Wyatt really didn't feel like talking—the calls were short, and without much substance. Wyatt knew his Grandpa was worried about him though, so he would try to put on a good front. He would prepare for the calls by checking the scores of recent games and scanning headlines from the news….so he could make it sound like he was actually participating in the world. Luckily his Grandpa was a creature of habit, and would call at almost exactly the same time each week….so Wyatt could also prepare by being at least somewhat sober, when he called. Knowing his Grandpa was there for him, was worried about him, it probably should have helped…but didn't. His Grandpa didn't know the truth—didn't know who he'd become, and how he had set in motion the events that had killed her. He shouldn't have wasted his worry on him.

After a long while, and with a certain level of desperation, Wyatt had taken to contacting his CO's office at Pendleton, hoping to be given something to do—he would have happily mopped the floors in the latrines, rather than sit in his house with his memories and thoughts. But the response was always the same—a well-meaning but misguided platitude along the lines of "don't worry about us, we're doing fine, your job is just to worry about _you_ right now." Because that was apparently supposed to make him feel better….at least, he presumed the person on the other side of the phone hadn't _intended_ to crush the tiny little spark that was left in him, every time he said it.

One thing he had proven during that time—worrying about himself got him nowhere good. When he wasn't replaying the previous three years of his life over and over, identifying and categorizing every miss-step he had taken, every question he should have asked….he was listening to his own personal mantra of guilt— _she's gone, because of you_ , repeating over and over, for hours, in his head.

* * *

To this day, Wyatt couldn't put his finger on exactly what had changed. But when he woke, one day, close to noon, on the couch from passing out, something _had_ changed. It was though, as he slept, his sub-conscience had made a plan and delivered him his orders. He wasn't just going to sit here, anymore. There were things he had to do.

First things first, he began gathering all the information he could find on Jess' murder. He'd even called in a favour with an old basic training buddy who was now a cop in a nearby jurisdiction. He didn't know how the man had managed it….probably had to call in several favours of his own…but in just two days, he found a copy of the entire San Diego Police file on the case in his in-box. Jess' murder may have been orchestrated by some clandestine para-government, para-military organization….but someone still carried out the order. And if he could find _them_ …. Well, he knew enough about these sorts of ops to know they were carried out by imperfect humans….who would have left a trail. And even if finding the bastard who carried out the order didn't lead to implicating the larger group….at least he could exact some sort of justice for Jess. It was a tiny bit of hope, that he let glow inside him.

Next—he had to find a way to separate himself from these assholes. He called the business office of his Grandpa's retirement residence, and made it clear to the man who answered that, as Grandpa Sherwin's next of kin, _he_ was going to be paying all bills, from now on. Then he asked the monthly rates. Then he had to ask the man to repeat himself, to ensure he had heard the figure correctly. He was pretty sure you could buy small islands for less than the figure he was quoted. An image flashed through his mind of his new occupation in bank robbery. He was silent for a moment, then, swallowing his pride, asked the man if there were less expensive accommodations available, in the same facility. The man on the other side of the phone paused, then explained that there were some smaller suites in a different building. He then asked Wyatt to hold the line, as he went to check on something.

After a short pause, a woman came on the line, identifying herself as the manager of the facility. She explained that they were reluctant to move his Grandpa to the new room, because he was very comfortable where he was. She also said they all were fond of Wyatt's Grandpa, and suggested that they would be willing to charge him the lower rate, but keep his Grandpa in the same room, for six months….and then they could re-evaluate the situation. Wyatt thanked her—what else could he do? What he didn't do, was mention that there was no way he could afford the cheaper rate, either. Once off the phone, he paced the room for a while—he would hate himself, if he moved his Grandpa to a different place, when he was so happy where he was. He did the math quickly, and knew that he could probably get buy for six months at the lower rate….he hadn't been spending much money, lately, and he could empty out his savings….since what the hell was he saving for, anyway….now? But he would most definitely have to…. _re-evaluate_ at that point. It was good enough, he decided….he couldn't handle breaking Grandpa Sherwin's heart, at this point.

Then came the hardest part. Hard, because he could barely stomach the idea of communicating with the man again. He went through his computer, until he found Agent Daelman's email address. The message he sent was short, and to the point: "Need to meet."

He'd received a reply almost immediately, asking him to meet the next day, at a set of GPS coordinates that put him deep in a forested mountain range. The sort of location that practically screamed it was a trap of some sort, but Wyatt didn't care.

* * *

The next day, after more than two hours of driving, Wyatt pulled his truck alongside a small cabin with a long drive. At first glance, it seemed like it hadn't seen use in years—rusted out oil drums were leaning against the wall….and he had to look twice to identify something that might have once been a 1950s model automobile sitting at the back of the drive, completely overgrown with vegetation. But he also took in the much more….modern bits, of his surroundings. The dusty windows were wired, as was the door, and a small antennae of some sort jutted from the top of the wood stove chimney. There was also a small metal box, in the weeds beside an old hand pump in the front yard, with a blinking red light. As he got out of the truck, he saw Daelman, opening the door.

"There you are….come in."

Wyatt tapped his side, ensuring his weapon—brought out of its deep storage just for today—was there, then strode across the yard and into the cabin. Once inside, he took note of the rustic interior, with mismatched furniture and 1970s décor….and the continuation of the very modern security system that wired the entire building, including a surveillance camera in each room. Daelman was in the small kitchen, apparently making coffee.

"Come on in, sit—you really do look a mess, son. Can I get you something?"

Wyatt paused, the casualness of the other man's tone taking him aback.

"Just….stop. Don't. I'm not here for a visit….and, by the way, what the hell is this place? Your associates always go for super rustic safe houses, in the middle of nowhere, or was this just for today?"

Daelman smiled, thinly. "This place is mine, Sergeant, I come here to relax."

"Uh huh," Wyatt looked pointedly at the security camera in the corner of the room.

"What? Doesn't mean I can't be prepared."

"Right, you're a real boy scout." Wyatt moved closer, until only the kitchen counter top was separating the two men. "Tell me what happened to my wife."

"So we.'re just starting there, are we? I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Sergeant, I'll tell you what I know….but first you need to put that weapon of yours on the table, where I can keep an eye on it."

Wyatt narrowed his eyes at him….but he _needed_ to know….and that meant Daelman held all the cards, in this negotiation. Wordlessly, he took his weapon out of its holster, and placed it on the table top. He took two steps back to his original position, facing Daelman.

Daelman studied him for a moment. "I'm not naive—I know you think I killed her….but you're going to be disappointed….because I most certainly did not murder your wife."

Wyatt scoffed. "Fine…I agree….I am quite sure that you, personally, did not murder my wife." His voice hardened. "But I am also quite sure that you, personally, are most certainly responsible for her murder."

"Responsible? _Responsible_. From what I heard, you were careless with her. Leaving her on some dark forsaken road in the middle of the night? When you'd both had too much to drink? What did you think would happen? From where I stand, the responsibility is yours. The irony can't be totally lost on you, can it? Here you are, our primary asset in protection and security, and you let _that_ happen?

Wyatt's face flushed, and he clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, as he nearly vibrated with rage. "You're a bastard."

Daelman raised an eyebrow at him, and gave a half-laugh. "Don't get me wrong—I know you didn't _physically_ do it. And I was certainly glad to hear that you had been cleared of any wrongdoing in the whole thing. That blood they found on the scene, that was…." he trailed off, flashing Wyatt a knowing smile "….lucky, wasn't it?

Wyatt paled.

Daelman misinterpreted his colour-change. "What, you can't be surprised. We make it our business to know everything about our assets."

He poured his coffee, and continued, "Though I hear her family doesn't believe it, they _still_ think you did it….perhaps in a fit of jealousy? The other party-goers thought you were pretty mad about something. No, I suspect you won't get invites to dinner with the in-laws anytime soon."

Wyatt's head was spinning in a rush of emotions….he couldn't think….couldn't plan….couldn't identify Daelman's motivations…. Coming here had been a mistake, he couldn't control the situation. _Good job Logan, you just thought of this now?_

Wyatt knew that Daelman was using his emotions to manipulate him, and he channelled the anger resulting from that thought into his struggle to push the feelings aside, to find a moment of clarity...to think, to plan. For a brief moment, he had been successful. It was long enough.

 _Objective number one—manage the situation._ Get Daelman to _stop talking_.

Approach number one: _Verbal negotiations_.

Wyatt gritted his teeth, "I'm not here to talk about me"—but Daelman cut him off

"What did you think was going to happen with this little visit of yours, Sergeant? What if I don't have any answers? And, even if I do….it seems to me that you're in no position to bargain."

 _Dick was still talking_. Wyatt thanked his lucky stars for his training.

Approach number two: _Kinetic negotiations_.

He lunged across the counter, grabbing Daelman by his shirt collar, their faces inches apart—but then he saw it, the unmistakable glint of light on metal, as daelman had pulled a small handgun from under the counter. _Are you fucking kidding me?_ Wyatt released the man's shirt, instead grabbing the gun and the hand holding it with his left hand, forcing the weapon in the direction of the far wall, while he simultaneously used his right hand on the counter for leverage as he jumped and slid across the counter top, coming to his feet on the same side as Daelman. But Daelman was ready for him, and pushed his legs out from under him as he landed. Knowing he wouldn't be able to stay on his feet, he yanked Daelman's upper body toward him, and carried them both to the ground with his body weight, causing them both to roll….and then the gun went off.

The shot rang in Wyatt's ears, and then there was silence. He remembered first being aware of the linoleum beneath his cheek and the fact that he was not in any kind of pain….and then he was able to fully focus on the silence in the room. He pushed himself to his knees….there was blood on him….but not his blood. He turned his body, finding Daelman's form on the ground behind him. _Shit_. He scooted over to him, looking for a pulse….knowing that he would find none. Once his initial thought was confirmed, he pushed himself back away from the body, crouching against the wall. He closed his eyes, willing his swirling thoughts and emotions to get inline. After a moment, he exhaled, and stood. With another brief glance at the body, _what the hell had Daelman been thinking….trying to pull a gun on him?_ Wyatt walked back around the corner of the counter to the table, gathered his weapon, and walked back toward the cabin door. Just before exiting, he paused, and sqared his gaze on the security camera in the corner.

"You know where to find me." His message delivered, he exited the small building, and started the long drive back to San Diego.

* * *

 _Thoughts and comments in the box, pretty-please!_


	6. Chapter 6

_From Chapter 5:_

 _With another brief glance at the body, what the hell had Daelman been thinking….trying to pull a gun on him? Wyatt walked back around the corner of the counter to the table, gathered his weapon, and walked back toward the cabin door. Just before exiting, he paused, and sqared his gaze on the security camera in the corner._

 _"_ _You know where to find me." His message delivered, he exited the small building, and started the long drive back to San Diego._

* * *

Chapter 6:

Still on the couch, Wyatt lifted his head slowly from his hands, un-shed tears misting his vision. He glanced at the portrait of Jess that he kept on the console table. Here he was, five years later, still just trying to get by. He'd been doing….better, lately. He knew that was because of Lucy…..and Rufus. But sometimes….well, sometimes it felt like no time had passed at all, and he was still just trying not to drown in a stormy sea of grief, and regret….and all-encompassing guilt. He was usually able to force those emotions to behave, to stay locked away in their boxes….except when he was wholly incapable of doing so, and they overwhelmed him….like right now. And _why the hell now, of all times?_ Except he knew why…because of course his conscience would hold the key to open the floodgates. Without meaning to, he let his gaze slide from Jess to another framed picture sitting beside hers. A picture that Lucy had given him a couple of months ago—the time team, his team….just goofing off at MI. Lucy said she liked it because he was laughing, and she hoped it would remind him to laugh more. And he wanted to….he truly did, for her, and even for him. He forcibly pulled his gaze from the pictures, staring instead at the knot pattern in the floor. _How was that ever going to happen?_ He glanced back at the bedroom door, seeming an impossible distance away, which it probably was, if he measured that distance in secrets. _How did he get here?_ Sometimes the inter-connections in his life astounded him….most that he only recognized in retrospect. If he'd been more aware, paying more attention, before….would he now see it as fate's hand? Because of course, they would assign him a new handler...and he knew now that his new handler would be responsible, in a great many ways, for shaping his whole future. Fate? Or just the work of a bunch of twisted and manipulative Rittenhouse _dicks_? Sometimes he wasn't sure if there was a difference. And, if there was no difference, then what role did his own decision-making play?

* * *

Wyatt had spent the next month….just waiting. Waiting for a response from Daelman's group. He hadn't been sure if it was going to be imprisonment in some black site prison, or a bullet in his back….but he was pretty sure the assholes had something in store for him.

Most days, he would push the suspense to the side, ignore it. His days were filled by his research into Jess' case. Interviews and maps, articles and wild theories from the local psychic….he went over them all. If he was being honest with himself, he knew that the bulk of his research was just taking him in circles…..without making any real progress. But it filled his days—and he needed that. His nights were another story. Although nightmares weren't new to him, their frequency and ferocity increased significantly, following Jess' death. That was when he could fall asleep at all. Most nights he would lie in his bed, in that hazy place between wakefulness and sleep, where images seem realer than dreams….and he would see her—always her. Stirring his love, and his guilt….until the two emotions seemed inseparable in his mind.

He'd taken to walking, a lot. He liked to hike into the surrounding hills, alone with his thoughts, and his memories. Sometimes, alone in nature, he could almost forget. He'd see a view, or a bird's nest, and think _I have to bring Jess here to see this_ ….but then he would remember. Sometimes, while walking, he could almost believe in hope again—because if he could recognize the hope in a sapling that was trying to grow in a cracked limestone rock face, then maybe he could hope for himself again….someday. However, it was also when he was walking that he would have what he thought were sudden insights into Jess' case—a new idea about a research avenue, or a new way of looking at evidence…. But then, back in the coldness of his house, in the glare of the artificial lighting, the inspiration would dissipate, like smoke from a chimney. There was nothing new, nothing of use to him. And that idea of hope for himself? That would dissipate with it. And then he'd find himself renewing his friendship with the bottle….even though he hated himself for it….and knew Jess would be royally pissed at him.

His mandated leave with Delta Force was nearly through….he'd received a phone call from someone with Personnel Services, asking him to come in to talk about his readiness to return to active duty. _That was the question, wasn't it?_

It was time for him to make a decision. Was he going to keep walking this path? Keep going with Delta Force, the missions….and the likely deeper entanglement with whoever it was Daelman had represented? Whoever it was that had killed his wife?

But he had no idea what else he _could_ do. His whole life, whether it was as a kid, listening to his Grandpa's stories about WWII, or that Christmas when he was ten—when he'd received that cheesy scroll in his stocking, telling him the meaning of his name: _Wyatt, from the medieval English name Wyot, meaning "brave in battle"_ ….it had almost seemed like fate that he enlist, and that it would be his life's path. Not that he believed in fate….especially not now. Not since Jess...

Wyatt knew one thing. He _had_ to do something. He couldn't keep living in the beige nothingness. He had to do something, or he would lose his mind…what was left of it, anyway. And the military….it was something he understood….something that was solid. Something you could count on. It wasn't chaos, which seemed to be dominating his internal life. So what, if Daelman's "special interest group" had power, and was pulling strings. If he didn't like something—well….he'd just tell them to screw off. At least, that's what he told himself.

At the end of the month, he'd been contacted by Delta Force brass—he could begin the process for return to active duty. His subconscious whispered to him—were these communications _legitimate_ , or from Daelman's group? Hell, he was starting to wonder if that was a difference without a distinction.…. _Get a grip, Logan, you're becoming paranoid._ But he'd made his decision. Pushing away the paranoia, telling himself that everything was as it should be, and he would soon be doing good work with Delta Force again, he attended the required meetings, and filled out the required forms.

The day came when he had been told to expect information on his next assignment. He received an email that morning from an unknown address, instructing him to attend at a set of GPS coordinates at 2pm.

 _Shit_. That was _not_ the way it was supposed to work. How did that saying go? You're not paranoid if they really are out to get you.

* * *

He'd considered his next option for several hours. What would he be walking into? A trap? But if they wanted him dead...wouldn't they have done that already? Was it actually going to be information on his next assignment….were they just going to pretend nothing else had happened in the interim? But if that was the case, that would mean that he was working for _them_ again, and not Delta Force proper…..and he wasn't going to do that, again, was he?

He had located the meeting point on his computer—a remote corner of a large park. There would be people there, but not a lot. It was mostly open, but with forest around the ring. Limited options for surveillance, which he supposed was good. But why would they have picked it? Were they actually afraid of _him_ bringing friends? Or was it an olive branch….trying to make him feel comfortable? Should he just ignore the whole thing….ignore their summons? An hour before the stated meeting, Wyatt made his decision. He stood from his living room couch, grabbed his jacket….and left his house.

He had parked his truck near the park entrance, and walked the rest of the distance to the meeting point. There were a few people walking in the park, but most in the more centralized section that he could view in the distance. The corner he stood in was quiet. He surveyed the terrain glumly. The decision to use this spot—it was sloppy. There were no good exit path—no real cover, unless he could make it to the trees behind him. But the location was just as poor for whomever he was meeting….whose idea was this? If this thing went bad…..there was going to be an open ground gun fight, in a very public place. Not ideal.

He checked his watch, for the third time. It was now five minutes past the designated meeting time. Was this some kind of joke? He scanned the public walkers in the distance, and this time noted a tall man peel off from the crowd, and veer in his direction. Grey hair, grey suit, blue tie, and brown leather shoes, all to go for a walk in the park. Just the way he carried himself across the grass—no _way_ was this guy military. More like a retired hippie wanna-be. But the man kept walking toward him….until they were standing only a few feet apart. Wyatt appraised him, coolly.

"Hello, I believe you are Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan?"

Wyatt gave him another sweeping glance. "And you aren't military….or NSA."

The older man chuckled at that. "Most definitely not. But interesting that you can tell…."

"I presume this….place" he motioned at the park around him, "Was your idea?"

He was still smiling at Wyatt, and nodded, almost imperceptibly. "'Also interesting."

Wyatt was growing impatient, "So….why are you here?"

He stood for another moment, as though trying to make a decision. Then he shrugged, slightly. "My associates…."

Wyatt rolled his eyes. "You know what? I don't have to listen to this." He turned, shifting away from the man, as if to walk back across the park.

But the man stepped in front of him, blocking his escape. "You're right." He glanced pointedly at the weapon beneath Wyatt's jacket. "I'm pretty sure I can't make you listen to me, Master Sergeant….but I think you should"

You must have expected that you'd be assigned a new handler….it certainly proved necessary, after your….mess, with Agent Daelman. Perhaps you remember, he introduced us briefly….a while ago, at the Winston House. My associates…. well, we all realize that things got a little….intense, with you and Daelman, for a while. We never should have let things get to that point."

Wyatt had lost the tiny bit of patience he had remaining for this man….for this whole crazy situation. "Intense? INTENSE? Daelman," he nearly spat out the name, "he killed my wife."

"Killed your wife? Is that what you believe? I knew the man for years, Wyatt; that really doesn't sound like him. From what I hear, you're doing quite a job with your own investigation into who killed Jessica."

Wyatt stepped back quickly, in surprise.

"Doesn't it seem more likely that you're looking for a more common criminal element, a predator, of some sort? We both know there's nothing about the case that makes it appear like an organized hit. Not that my group _isn't_ capable of such things...but, don't you think we'd be more…. _refined_ , in our methods?"

"You don't get to talk about this." He hated how his voice sounded choked, even to his own ears.

The other man's smile faded. "Let's look at this logically, shall we? You didn't kill her. I can pretty much guarantee Daelman didn't kill her. And, if it makes you feel better, _I_ didn't kill her, either. So there you go, three people cleared. Only about 7.5 billion to go. Look, if you want to find this scumbag, then have at it. But you'll do it on your own time—you still have a job to do."

"I don't take orders from people like you."

"Your orders and missions are still coming from the appropriate sources, don't worry about that."

He snorted, "Yeah, you guys are good at protocol, aren't you."

"You do like to be by the book, don't you?" He sighed. "General Villenueva, do you know him?"

Hearing that name in this context surprised Wyatt. "By reputation, only."

"These orders, and any others I deliver, are coming through him. Is that understood? He would have met with you himself, but—well, he and Daelman, they were childhood friends, you understand, their fathers served together in the War."

"Hey, Daelman pulled the gun on _me_."

"Hmm, yes. But, when I volunteered to take on the face-to-face aspect of things….well, the General didn't complain."

"So….who are you?"

"Forgive me….I've been rude." He held out his hand, Wyatt didn't shake it. He smiled and shook his head slightly, bringing his hand back to his side. "My name is Benjamin Cahill.

Well….now Wyatt had a name. He quickly filed it away in his brain in the "smarmy civilian assholes" category. He'd had enough of this….he didn't have to just take it. Man wasn't even armed, what was the worst that could happen? There was a certain amount of freedom to be enjoyed, when you no longer worried about consequences. He had intended to walk away right then….but his new found freedom to be bold….reckless even, well it had other plans. It wanted _answers_.

So, why _did_ you volunteer, _Ben_? What's in this for you?"

He seemed to find the question amusing. "Oh, just an interested party, I suppose. I do find it fascinating, what makes someone like you, one of my group's military personnel assets, that is….tick."

Someone like him….a military personnel asset….the words repeated in Wyatt's brain, and he felt sick, at the implications of what he had apparently been reduced to.

Cahill was still talking, "I think I wanted to learn more about you. I had studied some of your mission work, after our first meeting. But I admit I was shocked to hear about poor Daelman." He looked at Wyatt again, quizzically, "Do you feel better now? After that? I wouldn't think so…."

Wyatt was incredulous. "Are we done here?"

Cahill looked surprised, "Well-I have your new mission objectives, if you're ready to ask?"

"No thanks."

Wyatt saw the change move across the man's face….his entire attitude changed from friendly, to warning.

The man sighed. "There was concern you'd respond this way. I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that my organization doesn't let high value assets like you just walk away."

Wyatt laughed, "Yeah, what are you going to do about it?"

"Oh me? Nothing at all. But I think you have a sense of what my group is capable of." He put his hands in his pockets, and gazed along the treeline. "I went for a ride along the coast the other day—stopped in to visit your Grandfather."

Wyatt paled.

Cahill glanced at him quickly, "Fascinating man….ninety-six years old, and still has all his faculties. My, he does like to tell stories, doesn't he? "

Wyatt put on a mask of indifference, "What, is that supposed to scare me?"

Cahill looked back at him, the small smile had returned. "Not necessarily….more to remind you of your place, in things." he looked at him again, as though trying to make a decision.

"Well, let's try a new plan, shall we, Master sergeant? On General Villenueva's orders, you're being reassigned to a new Delat Force team, currently stationed in Fallujah. Have fun playing in the sandbox, Logan, maybe you'll be more amenable to accepting your role as our asset after that." With that, he began walking away.

Wyatt's anger boiled, "Hey, douchebag!"

He turned, laughing, "That's—colourful. Is that an example of some of that famous Texan hospitality?"

"My rank is Staff Sergeant."

"Oh, didn't I say? I thought I had. Really should have been Dalman to tell you, but...it seems the Board for Promotion selected you….just before you went on leave. A promotion of two pay-grades….quite an honour, I understand."

"And if I don't want it?"

Cahill looked taken aback at first, then his eyes widened and he shook his head, in understanding. "Get over yourself, Master Sergeant. My group doesn't worry about the small things. This, this had nothing to do with us—apparently, it was all on your own merit. Interesting though—the timing of it all... Well, _Master_ Sergeant, I suppose each time you hear your new rank, you'll be reminded of them….Daelman, and your lovely wife, of course." With a smile that verged on being a sneer….although perhaps it was just Wyatt's imagination….he left

* * *

Later that afternoon, Wyatt received official correspondence from Delta Force leadership, indicating his new assignment in Fallujah. He had boxed himself in—yes, it was a real Delta Force mission, but if General Villenueva was a part of it all…. And yet, at some level, he knew that Daelman's group couldn't have control of everything….other soldiers….other Delta Force soldiers, were not living this same experience. Yet here he was, day one of active duty, and already fully ensnared.

It wasn't too late, he told himself. He was pretty sure he could have applied for discharge on compassionate grounds….or the military might have discharged _him_ for mental health issues….if he ever bothered opening his mouth at those monthly psych. appointments they had been making him attend. But even discharged from the military….what would Daelman's group….or Ben's group….or whatever he was supposed to call it….what would they do then? Cahill had said they wouldn't let an asset just walk away….if he was discharged from the military, would that make him expendable? He was pretty sure he knew what that would mean. And what good would that do anyone? Then there would be no justice for Jess.

That was when he had realized the truth. Staying in the military, staying entangled with Daelman's group….it was the only way for him to find justice for Jess. And possibly the only way he could find redemption for himself.


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Notes:_

 _1._ _I'm posting 3 chapters in quick succession, so make sure you don't miss one! If the most recent thing you read was the altercation between Wyatt and Daelman at the cabin, then start at chapter 6._

 _2._ _I admit, this next chapter is probably not to the standard of the others. I didn't do nearly as thorough an edit as usual, both because I am rushing like crazy to get two more chapters posted before going on vacation….and just because I am excited about getting to the next chapter!_

* * *

 _From Chapter 6:_

 _But even discharged from the military….what would Daelman's group….or Ben's group….or whatever he was supposed to call it….what would they do then? Cahill had said they wouldn't let an asset just walk away….if he was discharged from the military, would that make him expendable? He was pretty sure he knew what that would mean. And what good would that do anyone? Then there would be no justice for Jess._

 _That was when he had realized the truth. Staying in the military, staying entangled with Daelman's group….it was the only way for him to find justice for Jess. And possibly the only way he could find redemption for himself._

* * *

Chapter 7:

Wyatt found it strange, being on active duty again, after so long. Different than before, of course…because everything was different, without Jess, but some things still seemed familiar. When he was actually _doing_ something, he was just like everyone else—he carried her picture in his pocket, just like all the other guys carried pictures of their sweethearts. He didn't think about home, because it was too hard—but that was just like all the other guys, too. But what surprised him, what he hadn't been ready for, was how much the actual work came to mean to him. Even in his grief, he recognized that he was doing work of value again. And he had a team again, somewhere to belong.

While working, he'd been able to keep everything else—the grief, the pain, the guilt, the despair-locked away in their compartments. He knew that those compartments were probably the only thing that allowed him to function….probably the only thing that allowed him to survive. During periods of rest, when he wasn't on the job, when he was supposed to be sleeping….then he lost control of them again. But that was nothing new—nightmares, sleepless nights….all familiar, even in an unfamiliar environment. And maybe there was a certain comfort in that too?

And, after having somewhere to belong again, the next best part of his new assignment? Knowing that Daelman's group and Ben Cahill were _far_ away. He could shove them in a compartment too, and almost pretend they didn't exist.

His mission in Iraq proved brief, but successful. Soon after, he received word that he was being transferred to another, more specialized Delta Force group, based in Kandahar. Even more than in Iraq, this team was special to him. It made him recognize, and really understand, what he was meant to be doing. Made him remember what he was good at.

Bam Bam, Robbie, Zachary, Matt….they were more than a team. They practically became one entity, when they were working toward a goal. He had been welcomed easily to the group….and soon he was a part of that single entity, too. They were achieving important goals—goals important to the Country, and that actually _helped_ people. Being a part of this team, giving him a family again, it gave him back a tiny bit of light inside him. He dared to start believing in his team….and quickly found that he was staring to maybe believe in himself, and to truly _live_ again, to live for his team, and for their missions.

Not that the missions were always squeaky clean—Daelman had been right about that one—there was always a mess...things still weren't as black and white as Wyatt wanted them to be. But, when it came right to it, the missions were _right_ , and his team-members were good people, trying to do their best.

There were times, while he was working, that he almost felt happy again. It wasn't just the idea of having a family—but that he had people he could put faith in again, that he could trust. And he knew his role—his primary role—in his mind, was to protect them…..and he was damn good at it.

Military brass had been debating the merits of loyalty to unit vs. mission vs. country forever. Wyatt had even found the ideas interesting enough that he would actually read some of the articles in the military publications—which his fellow soldiers usually teased him about, mercilessly. But although he may have been able to consider different view-points in the abstract….whenever he was in the thick of things during an operation, there was never any debate, for Wyatt. His team—unit, pair, whatever that looked like, came first. Period. He figured if the team came first, everything else would follow. The motto, "This we'll defend"? For Wyatt, there was only one definition of "this"….it was his team.

* * *

Perhaps the only reminder of home that Wyatt did actively look forward to was his Grandpa's letters. His Grandpa _liked_ sending letters….and he sent a lot. Wyatt knew that letters from his family had meant everything to him during WWII when he was overseas, so even when Wyatt would protest, telling him there were now much more immediate ways to communicate, Grandpa Sherwin stubbornly continued the tradition. The guys had kidded him about it, unti,l in a moment of inspiration, Wyatt had given his Grandpa information on all the guys….and Grandpa had started writing to them too. Nobody openly talked about it, but Wyatt knew they all secretly enjoyed receiving their letters….especially when he caught them spending their free time writing back to his Gramps. The clerk at the base said they were all off their rockers—said he couldn't remember ever having processed that much paper for a single Delta Force squad. He called them the "Time Warp Squad"—which was pretty damn funny….in retrospect.

Letters from Grandpa Sherwin were supposed to be fun….which was probably why Wyatt wasn't prepared ….never saw it coming. He'd opened a letter, reading his Grandpa's descriptions of the goings-on at his residence…and then read his Grandpa's comment that he'd had a nice visit again from that colleague of Wyatt's….Mr. Cahill.

Wyatt had physically dropped the letter on his bunk, a feeling of dread washing over him….followed quickly by a chaser of helplessness. He immediately went to the computer in the lounge, and checked his bank statements. He'd actually been able to keep the payments going longer than he had originally anticipated, and the residence had been kind enough to keep him at the cheaper rate, without saying another word about it….but neither of the previous two monthly fees had been charged to his account.

Now overly agitated, and knowing he was probably making a bit of a spectacle of himself, he demanded that he be able to make an immediate call to the residence office. Once he had reached them, _lucky it wasn't two in the morning_ , the man on the phone explained that Cahill had come to tell the residence office that Wyatt was now stationed overseas, and then had a nice visit with his Grandpa. Wyatt asked about the payments. The man sounded surprised, he said Cahill had brought them a letter, apparently signed by Wyatt, switching payment over to a different account.

"No….no, that's not going to happen." He was nearly shaking….he wasn't sure if it was with rage or fear. "I need you to cancel the payment from Mr. Cahill's account….charge it to mine….and _shred_ that letter." Wyatt knew he was barking at the man….just as he knew several passing personnel from the base were now staring at him.

There was silence on the line. Wyatt felt pretty certain that having people fight over who was to pay their exorbitant rental rates was a new experience for the office manager.

The man's voice returned, "I'm sorry sir," he started, sounding slightly afraid, "But the withdrawal from the other account is non-reversible."

"Fine. Just put everything back to my account, starting next month."

There was another brief silence on the line. "I'm….sorry again, sir. But the payment that was made from the new account was for an entire year's expenses."

Wyatt cursed, and got more stares….he really should have requested a private line.

The office manager was talking again, "Do you want to talk to your Grandfather about this?"

Wyatt couldn't supress a small smile at that….nice job trying to pass the buck. He sighed, "No, no, he doesn`t need to worry about this." And he disconnected the call.

Well…. _shit_.

* * *

But, with the exception of the retirement residence drama, being engaged overseas meant that Wyatt generally could forget about his past—about Daelman, about Ben….instead he could focus on what was important, and what he was good at. It was slow, but protecting his team had caused that small spark, deep within him, to glow stronger. With each mission, each assignment, he was staring to believe again….starting to hope.

The Kandahar Delta Force team was kept together over a long period, for many constantly changing missions and operations within Afghanistan. The brass knew a good team when they saw it. Which made Wyatt happy—he was starting to feel like a real, functional human again….most of the time.

And although he trusted his team with his life, he was careful not to show them everything about him. He built walls between him and his team—walls to keep in the pain and the guilt—in order to protect them from his blackness. When he was alone, those compartments still bubbled to the surface of course, forcing him to lay awake with his thoughts. But, when others were around? Those compartments were kept buried deep, and behind those protective walls.

Of course they knew that Jess had died….but that was about all that he let them know. And when the guys were swapping tales….he didn't. He didn't mention any of his previous operations or contacts, _ever_.

* * *

It was nearly a year after joining the team that the first chink in his armour….the first hole in that wall, formed. He'd run back to grab a forgotten item from his bunk, only to find Bam Bam, kneeling over his opened foot-locker, reading a newspaper clipping about Jess' murder that he kept inside. A wave of near panic swept over him, in combination with a roar of emotions, as his inner compartments broke free. He had to brace himself on the door, to keep himself in control. Bam Bam had spun around at the sound of his approach, and looked suitably chagrined, when he realized it was Wyatt standing there. Wyatt saw the expression on Bam Bam's face turn from embarrassment to something that looked like….concern. He knew it was because he must have been broadcasting some of his inner turmoil on his own features.

They stared at each other, for a heartbeat. Bam Bam put the clipping back in the trunk, and closed it, coming to his feet. Without words, he had pushed the trunk back where it had come from with his foot, and approached Wyatt from the side, simply clapping him on the shoulder.

"Hey man, wanna pull the best prank _ever_ on Mattie? I got everything we need….right here," he held a suspicious-looking bag out for Wyatt's inspection, one that Wyatt had only just now realized Bam Bam had been holding the whole time.

"We just gotta go into his footlocker, and grab his mess kit….this thing is gonna be _epic_."

Wyatt exhaled, and the panic and emotion that had controlled him for a moment returned to their proper, buried compartments. It was as though the wave had rolled backward, onto itself, and he felt some semblance of self-control again. And Bam Bam was right….the prank _was_ pretty epic.

Bam Bam never said another word about the news clipping, and as far as Wyatt knew, he had never told the others about it.

* * *

After nearly two years of work, the Kandahar team received word of their new orders. The entire team was to return to Pendleton for a training stint. Only a month later, Wyatt had received yet more orders….from an honest-to-goodness ranking officer in the military, thank goodness. He and Zachary had both been hand-selected to lead a new elite Delta Force team, headed to Syria.

Wyatt had been happy about the new orders—being in San Diego was difficult for him. The military, thinking it was doing a kind thing, had somehow managed to assign him right back to the same house on base, the same house he had shared with Jess. But that meant being back with those old memories, and he was having….difficulties. The generally slower pace of things in training was also a problem for him….and what was there to protect his team from? Making sure they looked both ways before crossing the street? Not to mention that he realized he'd become on edge again, being back in San Diego. He was always half expecting that smarmy civilian asshole to contact him at any moment... And Wyatt was pretty sure the guy wouldn't be in Syria….

Yes, he realized that he was definitely looking forward to being back in the thick of it again, protecting his team, continuing to cultivate that feeling of hope. And the idea that he was looking forward to _anything_? Wyatt knew that was a big, big step forward, for him.

He still remembered, almost fondly, in a strange way, what total asses, he and Zach had been They had absolutely tormented Bam Bam, Mattie, and Rob about not being selected.

"You'll miss all the fun," Zach had taunted. "And you'll miss it when I finally get this joker," he indicated Wyatt, across the top of his pint, "….a girlfriend."

Bam Bam met his eyes briefly, but Wyatt just grinned at him, and turned back to Zach.

"No thanks, I know what your definition of a _girlfriend_ is….I've seen the girls you go with….I prefer mine at least have a couple of teethj"

Zach groaned in mock indignation. "One girl, I date one girl with...dental issues….and you never let it go," he shoved him, laughing.

Bam Bam had laughed, too. "Okay boys," he said to Mattie and Robbie, "The chosen folk are shipping out soon….let's go find a party to celebrate."

Of course, things in Syria didn't go as Wyatt had planned.

* * *

No….he was _not_ going to think about that. Not tonight. As if his nightmares weren't enough of a reminder. Annoyed with himself, he pushed himself off the couch, and moved back toward the window. It was still raining, which seemed somehow appropriate. Bam Bam….there was another issue….another thing that was all his fault. He should have been there, protecting Lucy and Rufus…..that was _his_ job. He wondered if there was still an opportunity, someday, to fix that issue, though-maybe to save Bam Bam? As long as it didn't endanger Lucy, in _any_ way. He looked back at the bedroom door. _Fuck_. He couldn't guarantee that….so there was no way it was going to happen, was there? Protecting _this_ team, protecting _his_ team. It had to be his first priority. Yet, the shadow of Syria dogged him….yes, he was good at protecting a team….except when he wasn't. And that couldn't be an option, not when he was talking about Lucy and Rufus….especially not with Lucy. She was what mattered to him, now. And not because of any blasted Rittenhouse mission orders—but because _she_ was his purpose now. She was the possibility that nurtured that spark inside him, that made him actually feel human again. She gave him hope for the future...for the first time in a long time. _Didn't see that one coming, did you Logan?_

* * *

 _You know I love your comments...even if I didn't edit this one so well...let me know what you thought!_


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Note:_

 _1._ _I will be posting 3 chapters in quick succession, so make sure you don't miss one! If the most recent thing you read was the altercation between Wyatt and Daelman at the cabin, then start at chapter 6._

* * *

 _from Chapter 7:_

 _Yet, the shadow of Syria dogged him….yes, he was good at protecting a team….except when he wasn't. And that couldn't be an option, not when he was talking about Lucy and Rufus….especially not with Lucy. She was what mattered to him, now. And not because of any_ _blasted Rittenhouse_ _mission orders—but because she was his purpose now. She was the possibility that nurtured that spark inside him, that made him actually feel human again. She gave him hope for the future...for the first time in a long time._ Didn't see that one coming, did you Logan?

* * *

Chapter 8:

Yet another period in Wyatt's life began, marked by blackness. But it was all somehow different, this time. There was no mandated leave, no well-wishing, from colleagues….not even any offers of grief counselling, from the brass. Instead, it was nearly the opposite. He was _celebrated_ by his colleagues and bosses.

He'd been called back, Stateside, almost immediately, after….everything had happened. His _whole team_ , gone. Just him left—the coward who ran with the intel, while the rest of his men fought for him. Because of a coin toss….because of _chance_. It wasn't supposed to happen that way. That wasn't what he was supposed to be there for…. _he_ was supposed to be protecting _them_. And he'd failed. And they gave him a fucking medal. How was he supposed to even _begin_ to process that?

They put him back in that same house….that same house that held him captive in a web of guilt and self-loathing. He'd been a mess, once he was back in San Diego….he couldn't sleep, and he barely ate. That was a new issue for him—but it seemed that anything he _tried_ to eat would just come back out again. Drinking worked pretty good for him, though, and he found himself back to drinking again, to try to sleep, to try to put on a mask of normalcy in public….hell, just to pass the time.

While he'd been in Syria, Bam Bam, Mattie, even Robbie had shipped out on other missions….so he was back to sitting in the house he had shared with Jess….alone It was like he'd gone back in time 3 years….yet somehow it was even worse. Because it wasn't just Jessica that he had failed

One night, he'd tried to pull out his boxes on Jess' case, tried to get back into the research….but he couldn't seem to gather his thoughts well enough to get anywhere. Most nights, he would still pull out that box of papers, even though he wasn't going to find anything….simply because it was better than trying to sleep. When he actually did sleep….he was inundated by a barrage of competing dreams….Zachary and the others, in Syria; Jess; on that road; and that horrible compound in Bavaria…. Sometimes, the dreams would blend together, until he wasn't sure where he was or what he was doing, when he awoke.

For the first time he could _ever_ remember, he'd actually been a little bit thankful, when his CO suggested he try attending those monthly psych. appointments again. Not grateful enough that he would actually _talk_ , in order to participate in the process, though. How could he? He wasn't about to let that stranger know all of the things he had done….all of the things that had happened, either because of his actions, or because of his lack of action. And besides, what good would it do, to tell that man about his dreams, or about his visions that seemed real….or about how he would break out in a sweat in the grocery store, because there were just too many variables that he couldn't control….too many people. And the doctor? The doctor told his CO that he was "good….totally good." It became Wyatt's new personal mantra….Yes sir, I am _totally good_. Where did the military find these psychologists?

The only good news, about being back in San Diego? So far, Ben Cahill and his group seemed to be on radio silence. In fact, it had been so long, since what had happened with Daelman, since his meeting with Cahill in the park….that he could almost put them wholly in that compartment of "the past". He almost dared to think that he might not hear from them, again. Except he knew he was lying to himself….because they still payed Grandpa Sherwin's rent….and, frankly, he had _let_ them. What else was he supposed to do?

* * *

A couple of months after he returned, Wyatt learned that he was being re-located, from San Diego to San Francisco. There was a new team of Delta Force recruits there, and he had been nominated by his CO to run some of their initial training programs.

He couldn't decide if the change in scenery did him good or not. Leaving San Diego had been difficult—not just because of Jess, but because of Zachary, and the rest of the boys, too. And even just because of _him_. Just thinking of the Wyatt Logan that had first moved on to Pendleton Base….and of who that Wyatt Logan was today. What had happened to that younger version of himself?

But, there were plenty of good things about the move, too. A new government-provided residence, free from memories. Except that, really, it looked exactly the same as his previous house. A new city to explore, if he ever felt inclined to go out….which he didn't. But at least there seemed no link to his new assignment and Daelman and Ben's group, they were still in San Diego, right? Although, in retrospect, he had no idea why he'd been so confident about that. Did he really think that Benjamin Cahill would be incapable of travelling the 480 miles on I-5? But still, that was still what he told himself….it was like the compartments, he supposed. _Hey, whatever he needed, to survive_.

The training assignment was….okay. He couldn't have been fun, as a training facilitator, for the new recruits-what with his wildly swinging moods. Once or twice, he was pretty sure he'd made a real fool of himself, experiencing an actual flash-back, in front of them. He wasn't an idiot….he knew what this was. No matter what that Pendleton doctor had said….he knew he was experiencing symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. Of course, he had _no_ idea, which specific stress in his life, the symptoms related to. H tried to cope by looking at it just as another hurdle. Another problem to be solved. His compartments had always worked well for him….so he tried that. Keep _everything_ , the emotion, and the memories, bottled in those compartments. But, if he was being honest with himself, even _he_ knew that, sooner or later, those compartments were going to become burdened, and overflow.

He'd started researching Jess' case again, in earnest. Which he told himself was a _good_ thing….keeping his mind sharp, getting his focus back on finding justice for Jessica. He'd covered an entire wall with his work. _Yeah, 'cause that's_ totally _normal_ , his subconscious would chide, each time he looked at it. And he would tell his subconscious to leave him alone...because _somebody_ had to keep investigating….the cops certainly weren't. They'd considered it a cold case, years ago. Someone had to keep investigating, because somebody had to _remember_ , somebody had to find justice…..

After a while, with the routine of it all, Wyatt had begun to feel better. He had fewer night _terrors_ ….still as many nightmares, mind you, but progress was progress. He could go to the grocery store without breaking into a flop sweat….although he did most of his shopping at the 24 hour store….at around 11 at night. But doing your shopping at 11 at night? Meant he was less likely to find the bottle that night….so that was progress too, right?

Yes, things were decidedly going _better_ , until the training period for the new recruits was through. Then his CO told him that he didn't actually _know_ what Wyatt's next assignment would be….because he'd been told that, rather than through the military, it was likely coming through either the NSA or Homeland.

At hearing the news, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end—he was afraid of the implications of that statement….what that might mean.

* * *

He could still remember that night— _That_ night, like it was yesterday. After drowning his sorrows for a while, in his new government issued digs, Wyatt had decided he couldn't stand the bare walls and soulless décor for another moment. So, he had grabbed his jacket, and walked to a nearby establishment to try _deluging_ his sorrows in a more interesting environment. Calling the closest bar to him an "establishment" was probably giving it too much credit. But it didn't matter, really. He had grabbed a booth in a far back corner, hidden by the kitchen entrance from the bar, as he had desperately hoped he'd be able to get through the evening without someone coming over to visit him in a miss-guided search for company, or more. He'd ordered a double, from the tired-looking waitress, and settled in. The game was on a tv in the corner that seemed to have more pixels burnt out than actually working, but he really wasn't paying attention. Why did he need to, when the running commentary in his head was _so_ much more interesting, than the one from the game? He sat there, just….replaying his life. Like the time he almost murdered children, or the time he abandoned is team, or the time he let Jess die. He downed his drink in a gulp, and motioned at the waitress for another.

A preternatural sensation suddenly caused him to look around, toward the front door. Ben Cahill had just walked through the doorway. Looking just like he had before-apparently not concerned about sticking out, wearing a suit. Of course, alsowith him, walked in even more memory and emotional garbage, that Wyatt had been telling himself he was getting past. _Crap_. Couldn't these jackasses just leave him alone?!

Ben seemed to know exactly where he was sitting, even though he'd specifically chosen the booth, because it was hidden. He walked straight toward him, with purpose.

"Hello, Wyatt," he said, as he slid into the booth, sitting across from him. "It's been a while."

"Whisky?" asked Wyatt, smiling sardonically, indicating the waitress in the corner.

"None for me, thanks. So, how's it going? How's the new place….the new city, for that matter, treating you?

He was talking like he was an old friend, and Wyatt desperately wished he had his weapon with him….just to wipe that smile off of his face.

"Did you come here for a drink? Because….if not….why don't you just leave me alone?"

"Wyatt, now I know, you're likely curious….I have a new assignment for you. We….my associates….recognize things may have been….difficult for you, as of late. But, I think you'll like this one….it really is right in your wheelhouse.

Wyatt stared at him, un-moving.

The operation is two-pronged….eliminate the target….an evil man, I promise you; and protect your team

Wyatt's face had changed at the words "protect your team", and he knew it. And he hated that he had just given Cahill that power.

Cahill smiled again, "It's your discretion, which goal is to be prioritized, in any given situation, of course."

"How do I contact the team?"

"You're to join with your new team tonight, actually….I have a car here, waiting to take you."

"I connect with my new team in the middle of the night?" asked Wyatt, eyeing Cahill from across the booth. "That's….irregular."

"Well, I probably should clarify. It's not really a team, well no team like you're used to, anyway It's a civilian team."

Wyatt rolled his eyes. _Great_. "And what if I don't want to?"

Cahill's face shifted, into one of surprise. "Oh—well, I really hope that you _do_ consider it. I really put myself on the line for this…..to get you here, I mean. Really, I was the one that was charged with hand-selecting you, for this team.

"Why?"

"Well—let's just say I have a particular _interest_ , which my associates wanted to respect. Well, I'm not the only person with a particular interest, but the other party involved was fine with me making the decision…." He chuckled briefly, "Eventually, anyway." He straightened his tie, "I will say, there was quite a bit of surprise when I chose _you_."

"Don't you think maybe you should have had a second thought about it all….when everyone else was surprised? That's generally a good plan, you know….group wisdom, and all"

"Oh believe me, I thought long and hard about it. But it is primarily a security and protection detail….and your record leaves no doubt that you are the best when it comes to that. Of course with that one…." he paused, seeming to look for the right word, "….domestic incident notwithstanding.

Wyatt flinched visibly, then took a long drink.

"But—that was different, wasn't it? And not a formal mission. So….let's not dwell on that. With this new mission….well, I am expecting great things."

Wyatt rolled his glass between his hands. "Well, sounds like you've got this all figured out, then. What more could there be to say?" His tone gained an edge, "Another target to eliminate, another person to protect. As you said, kinda in my wheelhouse, here. I guess that _is_ what I'm good at." He gave a grim smile, "Just like the other times, right?"

Cahill unexpectedly chuckled, "Oh, I think I can guarantee that this mission will be nothing like you've ever seen before!"

"Really, said Wyatt, taking a large sip of his drink. Not a team like I'm used to, not a mission I've ever seen before….and you have a personal interest in it all, too." He gave him a half-smile. "Now, come on, Ben….you know you can't leave it there."

Cahill smiled, thinly, in return.

"Do you read Orwell, Wyatt?"

He shrugged, non-committally.

Cahill smiled, "Who controls the past, controls the future…" he held Watt's gaze.

Wyatt shrugged, again, then cleared his throat, "and Who controls the present controls the past." What of it?

Cahill appraised him again, with an inscrutable look. "You do surprise, Wyatt. These _are_ amazing times, aren't they?"

Wyatt held the man's gaze for another beat; _what was this guy on?_ Wyatt was supposed to be the inebriated one, here. _Maybe Cahill really was a hippie-wannabe_.

Cahill seemed to still be waiting for a response, so Wyatt raised an eye brow, slightly. "Sure? Guess so."

"So, you'll join your new team. An Agent Kondo, and, ah, Agent….he thumbed through some papers that appeared from his jacket….Christopher, with Homeland, will brief you more fully on the mission."

Wyatt continued staring at Cahill, rolling his glass between his hands. So, here he was. Back in this mess again. Another mostly solo mission….'cause a team of _civilians_ —that hardly even counted, right? A target that Cahill assured was an evil man….but what did that even mean? And what was Cahill's opinion even worth, on the matter?

A million options swam their way through his brain, and he allowed himself to dwell on the most likely, for a bit. Just keep sitting here, and keep drinking; accept Cahill's mission, and getting sucked back in; or walk away from _everything_ , right now….to what future, he couldn't imagine.

At this point? He sighed, pounding his glass back on the table with far more force than necessary,`

"Why the fuck not?"

Excellent! And Wyatt? Maybe try to avoid breathing on either of the two agents in charge tonight? You're a mess.

* * *

 _Hi everybody - this fic is going to be going on hiatus...for two weeks, possibly a little more. Consider it a mid-season break! I even kind of left you on a cliff-hanger...even though we all know what is about to happen. The rest of this story is outlined in pretty good detail, so I hope to keep putting out new chapters pretty quickly, once I'm back._

 _Thank you to everyone who has been so kind in the reviews! I'll be off on vacation, with intermittent wifi at best! But, I will still check my email occasionally, so please feel free to comment in the box, or PM me_!


	9. Chapter 9

_From Chapter 8:_

 _Wyatt continued staring at Cahill, rolling his glass between his hands. So, here he was. Back in this mess again. Another mostly solo mission….'cause a team of civilians—that hardly even counted, right? A target that Cahill assured was an evil man….but what did that even mean? And what was Cahill's opinion even worth, on the matter?_

 _A million options swam their way through his brain, and he allowed himself to dwell on the most likely, for a bit. Just keep sitting here, and keep drinking; accept Cahill's mission, and getting sucked back in; or walk away from everything, right now….to what future, he couldn't imagine._

 _At this point? He sighed, pounding his glass back on the table with far more force than necessary. `_

 _"_ _Why the fuck not?"_

 _Excellent! And Wyatt? Maybe try to avoid breathing on either of the two agents in charge tonight?_ _You're a mess._

* * *

Chapter 9:

Wyatt sat in the back of the limo, watching the scenery that went by, trying to figure out where the hell they were going. He had already determined that they were not going to either of the military installments in the city. O _f course they weren't_ , he mused. They seemed to be heading out of the city proper, and toward one of the industrial areas.

It was somehow comforting to him that some things hadn't changed, while he'd been overseas. Benjamin Cahill still liked to hear himself talk. Even though he had said Agents Christopher and Kondo would be briefing Wyatt, when they got wherever they were going….in the middle of the night….Cahill obviously knew more than he let on about the specifics of the mission.

"….the civilian you will be charged with protecting is a University Professor—a historian and anthropologist….top of her field."

 _Fantastic_ , mused Wyatt, starting to form his profile. An academic, at the top of her field, would have to be at least fifty, probably older than that. So, _some ancient antiquarian….likely as dry and dusty as her books._ Then a second thought hit him— _what possible type of protection does a person like that need?_

"And there will be a third, I'm told. I pilot, of some sort….I believe a physicist."

 _Sure. Why not? A historian, a physicist, and a soldier walk into a bar…._

 _What had he gotten himself into, this time?_

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling. _Damn if the alcohol wasn't starting to get to him._ He straightened, returning his gaze to Cahill for the first time since they got in the car.

"Tell me about the mark."

Cahill looked confused, for a moment. "Oh—the target you're to eliminate? I know less about him, I'm afraid. I assume Agent Christopher will provide you with that information. He's stolen something though….something that makes him very dangerous.

"A danger to the historian?"

"A danger to everyone."

Wyatt shifted in his seat, he was pretty sure Cahill was enjoying this cloak and dagger shit. "Okay, so this _historian_ ," he emphasized the word, "You and her, are what, friends?"

Cahill appraised him with an indiscernible look. "We've never actually been formally introduced. So, no, she doesn't know me."

That was an interesting choice of words.

"Wyatt, you're going to have to understand that, in nearly all aspects of this mission, with the exception of the elimination of the target, of course—she's in charge. You follow her lead."

He smiled, about to say something that would no doubt get Cahill royally riled, when he realised the car had slowed, and turned, into a drive.

"Ah, here we are," said Cahill.

Wyatt returned his gaze out the window. They had pulled into a large industrial campus, of some sort.

"I won't be going in with you, Wyatt. But I'm told someone will meet you, if you go into the main reception area. Report to the agents in charge." He held out his hand.

Wyatt didn't shake it.

He chuckled again. "Well, good luck anyway, Wyatt. I'll be in touch."

Wyatt opened the door and got out, walking toward the indicated entrance without a look back at the vehicle, or the man.

* * *

He walked through the parking lot, that currently looked for all the wold like a staging ground for a major operation—with sirens screaming, flashing lights, and a multitude of vehicles. He immediately recognizedthose from local police and state police, as well as the unmarked vehicles, that he assumed to be Homeland. As promised, he was met in the lobby by a middle-aged man, who took him to a waiting room of sorts—a lounge area—and then left him there, alone.

By now, given the name was plastered over every surface he could see, Wyatt knew where he was—Mason Industries. He settled into one of the chairs, to wait for something to happen, and closed his eyes. Mason Industries….he knew a bit about them, cars, planes, appliances….pretty broad-scope stuff. He presumed Cahill's target had stolen something from Mason Industries, and that was why he was here. A plane, perhaps? Cahill had mentioned a pilot. But why did that make the target dangerous? And why the historian? He hadn't missed the fact that Cahill was overly-focused on the historian….

The door flew open, as he heard a male voice instruct, "Wait here, please."

A female voice, sounding flustered and a tiny bit scared began, "You know, I just need to call—" The door closed. "Cool."

Wyatt kept his eyes closed, partly to see what she would do, but mostly, because his head was starting to pound, and he knew the florescent lighting would make it worse. He _felt_ the pause in the air, and knew the mystery woman….the historian, he assumed….was looking at him.

"Are you asleep?" she whispered.

"No Ma'am."

"Oh," at her regular volume, "Okay, good."

An interesting addition to his profile, he could tell from her tone that she had no more idea of what was going on here than he did, in fact, she probably knew less.

She began to speak again, "This is Connor Mason's company? Do you know why we're here?"

 _Great_. Apparently the historian likes to talk almost as much as Cahill. He wondered if he'd be treated to her rapid-fire questioning all night.

"No idea Ma'am."

"You know, we're pretty much the same age…."

That caught his attention. He decided the time had come, and he opened his eyes. She was _not_ what he had expected. He let his face fall into a lop-sided smirk. He didn't miss the fact that she gave him the once-over too. _So Cahill had exaggerated about her status in her field of study….why?_

He was about to say something, when the door flew open again, admitting an obviously-in-charge woman, who introduced herself as Agent Christopher, and gave the younger woman's name—Lucy Preston, while confirming that she was indeed the historian and anthropologist. Well, now he had a name to go with his quickly changing profile. Lucy. Lucy—who was trying to live up to a well-known parent, and who was likely caring for her ill mother, he quickly amended his profile, hearing the brief conversation between the women. And who talked a lot when she was nervous, and who had no clue why she was here. And who was pretty. _Shut up_ , he told the inner voice that added _that_ tidbit to the profile.

Agent Christopher had turned her attention to him.

"….boy, speaking of reputations…."

Wyatt narrowed his eyes, slightly. _What did she mean by that?_ Was she part of Cahill's group? Did she know about him…? She better not have been talking about that damn medal.

He had no time to consider further, as she directed the two of them out of the lounge area, and into what looked like a hangar. And, from that point, Wyatt's entire life, his entire perception of reality, was changed.

* * *

Time travel. He was about to become a fucking time traveller. And apparently this was all real. He took the news only slightly better than poor Lucy did. When she stormed out, with Christopher chasing after her, he presumed he would never see her again. He was ashamed to admit that now, now that he knew her….but at the time? He couldn't really blame the woman. He'd been slightly impressed, when she immediately recognized the date and place as being the Hindenburg. Even though he told himself he _shouldn't_ have been impressed. After all, that was her job, wasn't it? It would be like someone being impressed by his hand-to-hand combat skills, or his ability to pick a lock. But he was even more impressed, when she returned from the parking lot, ready to take on the mission. Another amendment to the profile….tougher than she looked.

Ready to enter the machine….she was still talking. Holy crap, the girl could talk. What was she worrying about? Her bra? She was about to travel through time, and she was worried about her bra.

"No one is gonna see your bra," he threw at her, as he walked by , toward the ship. It wasn't lost on him that his comment had at least seemed to momentarily distract her from her verbal spinning.

And then they were in the machine. Saying it was close-quartered would be an understatement. He tried to focus on the newest member of his team, Rufus, to get a sense of the man. But he found himself distracted back to Lucy. Probably because she was practically sitting in his lap. She couldn't seem to figure out the seatbelts. He found it humorous at first, until, with some shame, he realized that her inability to figure out the seatbelts was probably due to an over-riding terror that was taking over her cognitive functioning. He looked at her again—she didn't look terrified, just nervous, but he suspected she was just hiding it well.

"You okay?"

"I'm….I'm claustrophobic, and apparently about to travel through time, so….have you been drinking?"

He smiled again. Nice deflection—he could respect that.

"Didn't know I was going to be working tonight, Ma'am". He smirked at her.

"Stop calling me Ma'am."

He was about to reply, when Rufus started the machine….travelling? He had no idea what Rufus was doing actually, but the machine started to shake and shudder. He saw her eyes widen in distress, and he flashed her what he hoped was a re-assuring smile. He'd already noticed that she responded to him—he could calm her, focus her. He had noticed everything about her, since first getting to Mason Industries, and he was going to have to keep noticing everything—about her _and_ Rufus—if he was going to keep these two civilians alive in whatever it was that was going to happen once the machine did its thing.

Yes, he noticed everything, until _all_ he was noticing was the way his insides felt like they were being put through a blender and then sucked out his nose through a straw. Fuck, the drinking binge had been a _really_ bad idea tonight. A stray thought entered his mind—Jessica would be laughing at him.

* * *

And so, it turned out the machine actually worked. There was of course some physics-type issues that meant it couldn't be used in any obvious way to fix the current situation, like going back five minutes to shoot Flynn in the face….but as a means of chasing the terrorist around….it actually worked.

He'd continued to size-up his team, throughout that first mission. He liked Rufus almost immediately. This was somebody he could work with. He under-estimated himself almost constantly, but all he really needed was a good pep-talk to build his confidence….and Wyatt could handle that in his sleep. He knew Rufus was the type of guy he could count on, even if Rufus didn't yet recognize that, himself. What you saw was what you got, with him. With Lucy too, for that matter. She seemed…..well, kind, and _sweet_. And Wyatt missed that, in his life. There wasn't a lot of sweetness in a Delta Force squad. Of course, there was a reason for that, his inner voice chided, _there's no room for sweet in a foxhole_. She was also overly excited and gee-whiz about the whole time travel thing, given the stakes they were up against….but he supposed he couldn't really blame her for that.

And of course she just kept talking….but damn if some of her approach wasn't effective. She got that bartender to talk faster than he did. And she immediately keyed in on Kate Drummond. Begrudgingly, he admitted to himself that someone like her, who knew the ins and outs of the social piece….would be valuable in this mission. She was a quick thinker too—which he always admired in his team members. On two occasions they had practically spoken on top of each other—said the same thing, at the same time. It was a type of synchronicity he didn't normally expect in a first mission with a new team.

And then she went and floored him with her callous dis-regard about Kate's impending demise. It just didn't seem like her—went against his profile.

She actually seemed surprised, when he called her on it. "Well, we can't change anything."

And she was right….but what the hell was he supposed to do with that information? What was the point in the mission, if they couldn't help people….couldn't make things better. Fine, so they chase and stop the terrorist….but just let all the….collateral carnage of history….continue? Cahill's voice rang in his head, "….she's in charge". And if that was going to be the way this worked….. _do your job, Logan_. So he would follow her lead.

* * *

And then, of course, the mission had gone to hell. They'd watched, as the airship landed, safely.

He heard Rufus' words, "That's not supposed to happen, right?"

But his mind had been captured by a single, terrifying thought.

"Where's Lucy?"

He'd found her moments later, beingmanhandeed by one of Flynn's goons….a situation he had sorted quickly, tackling and punching the man….and then shooting him, once he started to come at them again. In the back of his mind, he knew that he had just totally freaked out his team mates….but he also knew they were going to have to get used to the reality of the situation, sooner or later.

And really, he'd been on auto-pilot….once the fear of losing her had taken over….once that compartment of guilt and failure had expanded to fill his consciousness. _Damn it, you are not going to do this again, not again_.

He'd been annoyed with himself, afterward, for becoming so attached to his team, so soon. But he knew that was what he did….it was the way he was wired….and it was his great weakness. He had to stop himself from caring so much, because, if things went south, well, he was pretty sure he couldn't take another Syria-situation.

Luckily, Lucy had later taken the time to assist him in his desire to not become too attached, by freaking out on him about his modern weapon.

"Sometimes, things get messy."

"It is my job to make sure there is _no_ mess."

The woman was exasperating. Where had this sudden confidence come from? "There's always a mess, that's the deal. So now, we make it up as we go—and I take out Flynn. Which, by the way, might require the use of a damn gun.

But, his admiration for her grew, as that quick mind of hers was on display again. Talking about the bigger picture, of people living who weren't supposed to, and realizing nearly instantly Flynn's true plan, when she started listing the luminaries aboard the return flight.

He heard himself ask for clarification, and he ground his teeth in dismay as she explained. She was right, of course. It irritated him. He didn't like being a step behind someone, in the thinking department, that wasn't the way things normally worked. He was obviously going to have to up his game, if this was going to become a regular thing. And Rufus, well, he was like a genius or something….he was quick to jump into the fray, when things were in his comfort zone….like attempting to re-wire that walkie that turned out to be a detonator….not so much twenty minutes later, when they were thrown in jail, not that he could blame him. Apparently, in 1937, it was preferable to keep a man and a woman together in one cell, then to have a black man and a white man together. Lucky for them, as it turned out.

It had taken him a while, in that cell, before he realized the way out. And during that time, well, Lucy had wanted to talk, of course. Asking him about his interest in Kate. He was chagrined by that question—he had definitely taken his mind off the mission on that one. She probably did deserve an explanation. So he told her. And damn if she didn't keep asking more questions.

"I didn't know you were married."

"Jessica died. It was my fault," Whoa _—what the hell are you doing, Logan?_ He couldn't explain it, even now; there was just something about her….about her _presence_ that made him want to open up. "If I could just change that one….so when I saw Kate, I just couldn't let her….

Then, that cop had become overly interested in Wyatt's weapon—he didn't miss the "I told you so" look Lucy shot him. But in that moment, he found his inspiration, as his glance dropped from her face, to her chest. After that? It had all seemed easy. Rufus was a pro at channeling his anger and creating a distraction, with just a little bit of encouragement, just like Wyatt had predicted. Lucy had recognized his plan almost immediately too, understanding he wasn't just trying to get her out of her underwear….not that he didn't enjoy the view, mind you, hell, he didn't even try to hide the fact that he was looking. And she didn't slug him, even after they were out of immediate danger, which was….interesting.

Later, inside the Hindenburg, once they had found the bomb, he had surprised himself with his trust in her—"I need you to ground the ship, and get the passengers off." And he knew she could do it.

* * *

When all was said and done….the mission had been a soup sandwich. Not only had Flynn gotten away, they _had_ allowed history to change. Not his best work. But, his team was safe….which was a start. And then the floor had nearly dropped out from under him, when Lucy told Christopher about her conversation with Flynn.

"He said I should ask you why you chose me, and what Rittenhouse means."

And the pieces all started to come together for Wyatt. _Fuck_. He already knew why Rufus was chosen, apparently dude was the only guy that could pilot the Lifeboat. And _he_ knew why Lucy was chosen….at least part of the story….and probably more than anyone else in the room. She was chosen because Cahill had known of her, and she seemed important to him, for some reason. And he knew why _he_ was chosen….because he was Cahill's guy….or at least, Cahill's group's guy, their asset.

It didn't take much of a leap in logic to guess at what "Rittenhouse" might mean, or at least, the people the term might represent.

* * *

 _So? Let me know what you think? Sounding repetitive, I know, but I really appreciate reader thoughts!_


	10. Chapter 10

_Ugh. So this chapter decided it was going to be really hard to write...no idea why. But, after my third major revision, when I realized I was actually changing things back to read as they had on my very *first* version again...I've decided to abandon the re-write/edit process, and just post the thing!_

 _Also...I suspect it's all assumed, but I never actually said at the start of this that I don't own anything Timeless-related. And, since the chapters have caught up with the series, I should also state that, if it sounds to you like it might have been dialogue from the show….then I didn't write it!_

* * *

 _From Chapter 9:_

 _"_ _He said I should ask you why you chose me, and what Rittenhouse means."_

 _And the pieces all started to come together for Wyatt. He already knew why Rufus was chosen, apparently dude was the only guy that could pilot the Lifeboat. And he knew why Lucy was chosen….at least part of the story….and probably more than anyone else in the room. She was chosen because Cahill had known of her, and she seemed important to him, for some reason. And he knew why he was chosen….because he was Cahill's guy….or at least, Cahill's group's guy, their asset._

 _It didn't take much of a leap in logic to guess at what "Rittenhouse" might mean, or at least, the people the term might represent._

* * *

Chapter 10:

Wyatt let go of the window sill. He watched the puddles form rivulets on the pavement, running toward his building. From his vantage point, he couldn't see if they reached far enough to pool against the foundation. Because that was what he needed in his life right now, a flash flood to destroy his floors and mildew his crawl space. He turned back toward his bedroom, leaning against the window frame. What he needed was to go back—to go back to her, back to sleep….yet he knew that sleep wouldn't be happening tonight. He was too far gone to his blacker thoughts, too agitated now to sleep. He closed his eyes, picturing Lucy in the bed as she was before he came into the living room—the way her hair splayed across his pillow, hand gripping lightly at the cover. Normally, he knew no better way to calm himself then to think about her. But tonight? Tonight, of all nights, his thoughts of her were betraying him, not bringing comfort and calm, but instead circling back around to what he had done, what he was still doing….what he was hiding from her.

He closed his eyes, thinking about those early missions….when things seemed simpler, and more complicated….all at the same time. He still couldn't pinpoint it….couldn't pinpoint when exactly it was that the label on his Lucy profile—her compartment—had changed. But changed, it had; from mission objective, to trusted colleague, to friend….to something more. He supposed there were signs, early on, maybe even that first night….that many men would have taken note of. Details in the way he thought about her, his feelings about her. He smiled slowly….but then he'd been working too hard just to keep up with her, to have time to think about those types of things.

* * *

Wyatt had continued to notice everything about his new team, during those early missions. Rufus—he had been easy to understand, easy to work with. But Lucy….his thoughts and feelings about her had swirled and swung like desert sand in a storm. Just as he thought he had something pinned down, that thought would suddenly shift, escaping his grasp. Sometimes it was sympathy, as he watched her struggle, trying to navigate her new reality; then, quickly, it would change to admiration as she conquered that new reality, time and time again. Then, it was infuriation, when she tried to convince him of fate's hand; and there were even occasionally flashes of hot anger when she casually spoke of meant-to-bes….which for her seemed to include Jess' death….but not her sister's disappearance. But when she made those comments….well, he knew where those comments came from. She was trying to put order to her new reality, to justify what they had to do to protect history, and to process her sister's erasure from the timeline. So his anger with her was always short-lived.

Between the short-lived bursts of anger and agitation? He mostly just wanted to help her….and Rufus too. Why? Because they were his teammates….and he liked them. He wanted to help them, to help _Lucy_ , deal with this crazy situation they had found themselves in. In such a short time, she had already been put through too much. First losing her sister, then the Lincoln thing….to see a personal hero—she'd written a book about him for goodness sake—get shot in front of you? She didn't deserve that….and what in her life as a teacher would have prepared her with any means for processing that? She really just needed someone to lean on….and he'd tried to give her that. Just letting her know he was there, with a touch on the shoulder, or, after Lincoln, holding her hand. Doing the simple things to let her know she had his support, that she could count on him, that he would keep her safe….even if it was just doing up her restraints in that damn Lifeboat. That annoying inner voice of his had kept at him though, asking him if he was really doing these things for her? Or was it for him? Because, if Wyatt was honest with himself, he knew he _liked_ being there for her, he liked being needed. And, no one could have been more surprised than he was, but it turned out it made him feel good, to have that type of human connection again. He smiled to himself. No matter what he felt for his Delta Force teammates…they weren't usually in for the hand holding thing. So did that mean he was taking advantage, by offering her someone to lean on? Or was he just being a good team member? Or something in the middle? He tried not to think about those questions so much….but when he barely slept….questions like those had a habit of filling his nights. The other thought that insisted on setting up camp in his brain, nearly every night in those first few weeks? He was doing a piss-poor job of protecting himself by not getting attached to his new team.

Somehow, he had settled into routine, with this new mission….if you could ever call travelling through time routine. Then, shortly after their Vegas trip, Wyatt received a summons from Cahill, to meet.

Once again, the older man had greeted him as though they were old friends….in that way that made Wyatt grate his teeth. He schooled his face to stay neutral, to keep the conversation just what it was –all business.

"Was wondering when you would show up."

Cahill smiled. "Well, I had to check in, didn't I? What do you think? What is it _like_ , your little sojourns to the past, Wyatt? I heard you saved Seward a while back."

Even with his best efforts to keep his face neutral, Wyatt knew a spasm of shock had fluttered across his features.

"Oh—don't look so surprised, Wyatt. You know we're monitoring your missions. They're….very important, to my group."

Cahill's eyes scanned Wyatt's face, seeming to appraise the Sergeant. "Your work-It's all been impressive, certainly, but Flynn still seems to be alive, doesn't he?"

"And so's your historian, isn't she?"

The older man chuckled, "Touché. What do you think of them, Wyatt?"

Wyatt raised an eyebrow, in question.

"What do you think of your team?"

It seemed an unusual question, from Cahill. "They're….they're fine, good. Not a problem."

"Hmmm. And Rufus? What about him?"

"I told you, it's all good."

"And Lucy? Thoughts on her?"

He'd had about enough of this line of questioning. "I don't know, _Ben_ , what are your thoughts on her?"

Cahill looked at him, smugly, then turned his gaze away. "You know, I do envy you sometimes….what I wouldn't give, to find out what it's like to live for even just a short while, in the past."

Wyatt was growing bored of the seemingly aimless conversation; it was time to take back some control. "So….why don't you tell me about Rittenhouse?"

Cahill smiled thinly. "Is that meant to shock me? I just told you that we monitor everything about these missions. I know you heard that name from Lucy, and that she heard it from Garcia Flynn."

"So….that's your group, right?"

"What group would that be, Wyatt? Still….I'd prefer you didn't speak that name out loud. And what does….Lucy think about it? Rittenhouse?"

The question surprised him. Covering his confusion, he simply shrugged, "She thinks it's bullshit that Flynn is spewing, for now."

"Oh—are you planning on enlightening her?"

"Should I?"

"Have you been thinking, Wyatt, about why your other teammates were chosen for this mission?"

"Wyatt shrugged. Rufus is the only pilot we've got."

"True enough, although I hear he may have some other….talents? But what about Lucy? You know, I really do think it would be time well spent….thinking about these sorts of things. It's always important to know who you can trust."

"I trust my team….and Lucy doesn't know anything about Rittenhouse."

"Hm." Cahill checked his watch, then returned his gaze to Wyatt. "Well, I find myself agreeing with what you said earlier. She doesn't know anything about it…. _for now_ , at least."

Wyatt's control broke, and anger flashed across his face, as he took a menacing step toward Cahill. "Tell your Rittenhouse buddies to stay the hell away from Lucy."

Cahill laughed aloud at that. "Better be careful there, Wyatt. I selected you for this mission, and I still stand behind my decision. But there are some in my group….well, one, in particular….who doesn't like that you've been given this operation. Doesn't like it at all. And, after _that_ little show….maybe he does have a point. Don't worry; it'll be our little secret. Though, I think his opinion about you is already firm. And that conversation between Judith Campbell and Lucy? When you were in the next room? That certainly didn't make him feel any better about things."

"What conversation between Lucy and Judith?"

"Oh—maybe ask Rufus about that one. But anyway, _that_ conversation nearly sent my colleague over an edge. Now, he's not really anything to worry about, on his own. But he does have a powerful ally in the group….and I do think he is campaigning hard."

"Campaigning for what?"

"To have you replaced….probably with someone older, most likely….or at least less…. _interesting_ , shall we say? But that's not what I want. While I agree with him that, based on the early stages, your presence on the team could lead to some unforeseen….complications….you are still our best option, to achieve the mission objectives."

Wyatt was done with the conversation. He had no patience for Cahill's code-talking and riddles. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Cahill laughed, "Take my advice, Wyatt. You need to do your job. And do it without becoming overly….involved."

"Oh, don't you worry….I'm not going to become overly involved. In fact, you know what? You tell your group….you tell _Rittenhouse_..." he nearly shouted the name, and took some joy out of the fact that he saw Cahill actually flinch when he did so, "….that I will do this job. I will bring down Garcia Flynn and protect the team. But then, I am done. I am _out_."

He sighed, "Wyatt…..Wyatt. We've had this conversation before. You know there are consequences to that."

"Yeah? Well maybe I don't care."

"Don't care? So….how is your research into poor poor Jessica's death going? Have you found her justice yet?"

Wyatt took a step closer, until he was only inches from Cahill. "You don't get to talk about her," he hissed, using every ounce of self-control he possessed not to put his hands on him.

"Well, certainly it would work out well for you, I suppose. If you're able to identify and bring her killer to justice before you dispatch of Flynn, and _then_ walk away from….everything. Otherwise….well….it all seems to me to be quite a waste. To leave my group, with _everything_ that entails….before Jessica receives any peace? Don't you agree?"

With that, the man turned, and walked away from Wyatt, into the crowd of the busy pedestrian pier where they had been speaking.

* * *

1944 Germany had given Wyatt a lot to think about, on several fronts. Rufus' previous statement to Christopher was holding true—they really were starting to gel, as a team. Wyatt's conversation with Lucy, about getting over the hump, had brought him a great deal of peace that the historian really was going to be okay….really was cut out for this type of work….and really was as tough as he had thought after that first mission. Although, at the time, he had also been annoyed with himself, for talking too much, revealing too much about his past to her….again. _Seriously, what was it about her?_

But other things had changed, as well. He trusted her now….fully, and without question. When Fleming had argued about there being a right and wrong, he had agreed with every word the man had said. But he didn't shoot von Braun, or give the gun to Fleming, because she asked him not to….and not just because she was in charge….but because he trusted her. Even a few weeks earlier, Wyatt would have been disgusted with himself for that decision. But in Germany? It had felt right….no, Wyatt _knew_ it was right. Another, slightly jarring realization? Wyatt had actually given _thought_ to the Nazis that he had killed. Were they supposed to have survived the war? Were they supposed to have had children? Not much thought, mind you, but some. And that floored him. Because that was her realm….preserving history, preserving the timeline….he was the muscle, and shouldn't be having second thoughts about shooting Nazis….except that now, he did. Because it was important to her. And somehow, slowly, things that were important to her had become important to him. Yet another thought to toss around in his mind and examine repeatedly at night, when reasonable people were sleeping.

There had been yet another development, that mission. Most would have thought it insignificant….but it was _so_ significant to Wyatt that his instinct was to bury the thought almost immediately. It was _not_ a thought to be bandied about on sleepless nights….it wasn't a thought he was willing or able to process at all, right now. Because when Fleming had flirted with Lucy, Wyatt had felt the very early rumblings of….something dark, in the pit of his stomach. And what the hell was that all about? And, when she had casually brushed Fleming off, he actually _felt_ the dark feelings flood out of his body to be replaced by that more unusual feeling of hope. Hope for what? _Get a grip, Logan_. And so he had pushed the question, and that undefined darker feeling, aside.

* * *

Wyatt scrubbed his hand across his face, huffing a short laugh at his own expense. It was only looking back on that mission, months later, that he had allowed himself to properly identify that first feeling. He'd been jealous. Jealous of Fleming's attention to Lucy, jealous that he had made it seem so easy, to let her know what he thought of her, jealous of the way she smiled back at him. And that day he'd finally recognized what that dark emotion had been, he remembered that another startling thought had emerged. Rufus had known. _Then_ , in Germany, Rufus had known what was going on with Wyatt. How had Rufus been so fully aware of a concept that his own brain had only truly caught up with months later? Man was a genius….in more ways than one, apparently. Or…and perhaps this was the more likely answer, Wyatt himself was the opposite of a genius, at least in matters of the heart.

Leaning his head back against the coolness of the window pane, he smiled, another memory flowing quickly from the first. By shoving the whole thing away in a dark corner of his brain, his conscious mind had not truly examined it, at the time. However, as so often happens with these things, while his conscious mind refused to process the feeling….something had most certainly been going down in his unconscious mind….because a few days later, after actually having fallen asleep for a change, he'd had a dream about Lucy that was most certainly not a nightmare, and most certainly not about a professional relationship.

* * *

Wyatt had woken from the dream as though it _were_ something from his litany of nightmares—heart pounding, and brain desperately trying to process what it all meant. He'd settled on the safest of answers. They'd been spending a lot of time together….and he liked and admired her….and in all honesty, it had been a long while. He had been mostly happy with that explanation….except for that tiny voice in the back of his brain that kept arguing with him….kept telling him that that his excuse was bullshit. Because he'd had admiration for many of the women he'd worked with on Delta Force missions in the past….and he had never had any dreams like _that_ about them.

And images from the damn dream kept reappearing in his mind….usually at the most inopportune of times….like in the MI conference room, while she was telling the team about her latest Flynn theory. He shouldn't be surprised, he told himself. Biologically speaking, he supposed he needed _some_ kind of outlet. He hadn't really let himself think about women in _that_ way, for five years. There'd been an ill-conceived one night stand, a couple years after Jess' death….but really, that had been pretty much the sum total of things. Mind you, even though he hadn't been thinking about women….well it didn't mean he didn't like _looking_. And Lucy was always nice to look at—he definitely wouldn't have minded seeing her in that Vegas cigarette girl costume. Yes, she was always nice to look at….even though she wasn't his type….all dark hair and brown eyes. Those brown eyes….the ones that were definitely _not_ his type? God, if those eyes weren't amazing—as though you were looking into her soul. And she was strong, and smart, and feisty…. _crap_. _Stop thinking about that_ , he'd ordered himself. And, for a short while, he did.

And then the Alamo had happened. He didn't know what had brought it on—the chaos of the battle field, or the fact that he'd just been _fired_ from a job he was starting to love—was that because of whatever Cahill had been babbling about? But whatever the cause, Wyatt had been a mess that mission. He'd had no control, over his mind, over his emotions, or even over his senses. And she'd seen it all, and _heard_ it all. Yet, somehow….she didn't seem to think less of him.

There, on that battlefield, he had made his decision. He was staying—he'd been almost wholly consumed by his darkest compartments and impulses. But, in that moment, when she took his face in her hands, entreating " _I don't want anybody else. I trust you. I need you._ " it was as though she had flooded him with light. At a time when he had been wholly _un_ able to control his blackness, somehow, she had been able. Through sheer will, it seemed, she had forcibly pushed those dark compartments of his into submission, and pulled him back to himself. It was shocking to him—no one else had ever had that kind of control, that kind of power over him….at least, not like that.

Later, when they'd returned to the present, when he knew there was still a Texas, and that he still had a job, he'd looked up the letter on-line. His eyes had almost misted-over, reading the words that had come from her heart, her thoughts on the people of that place, of Bowie, of Crockett….and maybe, just possibly even of him, as well. And all the things in the Lucy compartment that he'd ordered himself not to think about after that dream came roaring back, now crowned with the new image of her eyes, while she pulled him out of his own self-destruction on that battlefield. He gave in, for just a moment, to let the feelings circle in his consciousness. He barely remembered the feeling…but in that moment he did recognize it. He realized that, at some level, he was starting to fall for Lucy Preston. And that couldn't happen.

Without warning, another thought had started to form. What did she mean that she trusted him, that she needed him? Why had she fought for him with Agent Christopher? After all, he hadn't done anything special….he was just trying to get them all safely back to the present day each mission….making it up as he went along. Unbidden, the hope compartment had reared up inside of him. Sure, all of those things were the sign of a good friend….but if he was falling for her, was it even remotely possible that, one day, she could possibly develop feelings for him, too? _Why are you even thinking about that?_ Confusion swirled in his brain, battling with the hope….until his darker parts emerged without warning, crushing his hope, and sweeping away his confusion.

That _really_ couldn't happen. He wouldn't let it happen.

For so many reasons. She didn't know him, not really, didn't know the things he had done, the things he was continuing to do. Didn't know that he was Rittenhouse. Besides, she deserved better….and he most certainly did not deserve her.

But, most importantly, he couldn't let any of it happen, because of _Jess_. Because, with time travel possible, his life's mission had changed. It was no longer just about honouring her memory, finding her killer, and bringing her justice. Time travel meant that he could actually save her….somehow, some way.

No, he wouldn't let it happen. So he'd done the only thing he knew how to do. He buried all of it—every Lucy thought, every Lucy feeling—away again, in its own compartment. After all, he told himself, it was just a passing infatuation, brought on by spending too much time together in a weird situation. It would pass, it would disappear. Until then, it had to be buried. They were teammates, maybe friends, and nothing else. Because he wasn't going to let those other feelings happen. For him, or for her.

* * *

For some reason, after the Alamo, Wyatt began thinking more frequently about Daelman, Cahill….Rittenhouse. Just thinking about the damn group brought a queasy sensation to his stomach, like it had for years. But this time, there was a new sensation there as well….dread. Not for him, but dread about what they had planned for Lucy. What did they possibly want from her, how did Cahill think the group could _use_ her? Because, even though Wyatt didn't know much about Rittenhouse, what he _did_ know was that they manipulated, and used people….for their own motives….which he hadn't quite figured out yet. For not the first time, the thought formed from the back of his brain—he would protect her. Maybe it was too late for him, he was already to entwined in whatever it was they were doing….but she wasn't, yet. And he could make sure she never was. That was something he could do, surely….some sort of redemption he could achieve for everything he had done. Keep Rittenhouse a curious abstraction for Lucy, no matter what….not something for first-hand experience….and never something that she was a part of.

That was one thing he could do, to strike back at the sons of bitches….but there was also another. Wyatt came to grips with the fact that nothing in his life was going to get better, if he didn't take back some control….from them—from Rittenhouse. After the Hindenburg, when Connor Mason had expressed his disgust with how much money the government was offering as compensation, he had offered Lucy and Wyatt additional money, to bring their salaries up to what he was already paying Rufus. Wyatt had refused the bonus, at the time, but, with his decision made to take back some control, he went back to Mason, hat in hand, to let him know he had changed his mind. To his credit, Mason had given him only the briefest of quizzical looks at his reversal, but then shrugged, and wrote a check. Wyatt had driven up to visit his Grandfather personally, and later spoke with the business manager again….to fix things. He left very specific instructions this time-that they were not to take his Grandfather's rent from any other source, except his own bank account….no matter what. He'd also asked his Grandfather to be careful about anyone who claimed to work with Wyatt—and not to admit Cahill as a visitor again. His Grandfather had seemed to want to ask a question about that….but stayed quiet.

Wyatt remembered the feeling of power that it had given him, that one small change. Cahill couldn't hold his Grandfather over his head, anymore. As though anything with them would ever be that simple. But at the time….things were starting to go well—Flynn in possession of a nuke notwithstanding. He remembered it was almost like it had been, back in Afghanistan—his team continued to surprise him, with their ingenuity and dependability, and he was starting to feel human again—starting to feel _good_ again—having a purpose. His job was no doubt important, even if it was indecipherable at times, and he was protecting his team….a good team. A team of good people that he actually liked. And then, Watergate happened.

* * *

 _Additional Author's Note: Okay, so *we* know Rittenhouse, at least in part, bankrolls Connor Mason. So technically, when Wyatt uses Connor's money to pay for his Grandfather's rent...it is still Rittenhouse money. But he doesn't know that yet...and I think we should all give him a break on that one...because he *is* trying!_


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's Note: I'm dividing the next bit up into multiple, shorter chapters….hopefully it means I can post more frequently, with a lighter editing load….I hope it doesn't hurt the flow of the story at all!_

* * *

 _From Chapter 10:_

 _Wyatt remembered the feeling of power that it had given him, that one small change. Cahill couldn't hold his Grandfather over his head, anymore. As though anything with them would ever be that simple. But at the time….things were starting to go well—Flynn in possession of a nuke notwithstanding. He remembered it was almost like it had been, back in Afghanistan—his team continued to surprise him, with their ingenuity and dependability, and he was starting to feel human again—starting to feel good again—having a purpose. His job was no doubt important, even if it was indecipherable at times, and he was protecting his team….a good team. A team of good people that he actually liked. And then, Watergate happened._

* * *

Chapter 11:

Over the years, Wyatt's physical body had been subjected to a lot of harsh treatment. He'd been shot, stabbed, cut, burned, had various appendages broken, puked his guts out because of food poisoning, had his kidneys turn on him because of drinking contaminated water….and had been operated on, without any freezing, by a physicist-coder. Then there were all the unintentionally self-inflicted incidents….most of which seemed to share a common theme of alcohol imbibement. Yes, it went without saying that he was hell on his body….or his job was….or both. But of all those incidents, he had a special mental list of the worst….not necessarily the most dangerous, or even the most painful, mind you….just the _worst_. An inglorious top ten….which to this day was topped by the result of mixing whisky with whatever the hell kind of "special punch" it was that his buddy had made for him back during an R and R break in basic training. But the effects of being tazered and chloroformed….at the same time? As Wyatt tried to clear his head, willing himself to open his eyes and figure out what he and the team had gotten themselves into….well, he knew _that_ feeling was shooting straight into the top three, like a rocket. What asshole could possibly think that that was not excessive? Finally his vision cleared, and with it, so did his memory for the incident. Flynn. Right. Well, that explained things.

After he regained consciousness, the hits just kept on coming….because it seemed that Flynn wanted to _talk_. Wyatt was as sarcastic as possible, trying to send the message to his team mates—don't listen to him….don't get sucked in. As Flynn talked, Wyatt worked on escape. There was an upholstery nail that just might work. While Flynn had tied Rufus and Lucy with rope, he had used what presumably was his only set of handcuffs on Wyatt. Lucky news for him. As he worked the tiny nail, Flynn continued talking, and then he played the tape. Nixon—talking about Rittenhouse, and how dangerous they were. That was….interesting. It wasn't lost on him that both Lucy and Rufus had stiffened at the mention of the name, as well. A constriction of fear hit his stomach….he didn't want this….didn't want Rufus or Lucy to start looking more closely at Rittenhouse….not because of what they might learn about him, well, not really…..but because of what it might mean for their own safety.

And then...things then got ever so much worse. When Flynn held out that diary, it was like a punch in the stomach to Wyatt….like the wind had been knocked out of him, and he couldn't draw breath. His brain struggled to interpret the meaning of Flynn's words. A diary—Lucy's diary. What was happening? Was it a trick? But one look at Lucy's pale face had told him the truth. This was no trick. Lucy had been having conversations with Flynn, and this guidebook, this diary…..was somehow hers. _How could she?_ She seemed wholly unable to meet his gaze, when he asked her what the truth of it was. How was any of this possible? All this time, he'd been trying to protect her! And yet….she seemed as confused as he was, about the whole thing. She seemed….scared.

A million thoughts coursed through Wyatt's brain. What did this mean….that she had a secret diary? Was _she_ Rittenhouse, like him? No….no, that wasn't right. Cahill said she wasn't, yet. And if she _had_ been Rittenhouse, why would she be helping Flynn? No….whatever this was, it was something else. But she had most definitely been hiding things. He'd asked her about the train station in 1865. He 'd _asked_ her if she saw Flynn….she said she only saw him leaving the train station….but now to hear she actually _talked_ to him….had had a conversation…. And then she had the nerve to say that it was complicated. That she didn't know what the truth was anymore. It was like she was some other Lucy….like he didn't know her at all.

White hot anger flashed through his mind. She was endangering the mission, that's what she was doing. Endangering _his_ mission….after he'd worked so hard to protect her….she was actively working against him. But the sensation quickly cooled….because that wasn't her. She wouldn't….she _couldn't_ do it on purpose….could she? And then there she went, taking Rufus on a hunt for the mysterious document to save _him_. What was she doing? He yelled after them, telling them to go straight to the Lifeboat, to not give Flynn what he wanted, knowing it was Lucy he needed to convince. She had met his eyes for the briefest of seconds, and the trust in her eyes had Wyatt immediately feeling badly for thinking poorly of her. He gave her a slight nod—he had thought that she had heard him, thought she had seen sense.

But then she said, "Five hours, don't hurt him." And she and Rufus left the room.

 _Shit_. She was completely out of her mind.

* * *

And then it was five fucking hours, spent alone with Flynn….who just kept trying to work him. Wyatt didn't really mind-after all, the more Flynn talked, the less likely he was to notice what Wyatt was up to with the upholstery nail. So Wyatt kept asking questions….and got way more of Flynn's story than he anticipated the man would ever share.

What ate at Wyatt's conscience was just how much like Rittenhouse the whole story sounded….and therefore it was actually possible that every word of it was true.

He had tried to keep his focus on building his understanding of Flynn….and on escape. But it had been difficult, as his thoughts continued to circle back to Lucy, and that damn diary. What really made him angry at himself, was that Flynn seemed to know exactly how the reveal of the diary's existence had made Wyatt feel. Was he really that transparent to Flynn? Or….what the hell else was in that book?

One thing Wyatt had quickly ascertained was that there was nothing in that diary about _his_ role with Rittenhouse. Because, if there had been anything, _anything_ , in that book about him being Rittenhouse, Flynn would have used it to his advantage, and would have used it against Wyatt. He would have told Lucy, turned her against him….or he would have just killed Wyatt right there—for being a part of it all. That should have been Wyatt's victory that day—but instead, somehow, it made him feel worse. As though, at some level, perhaps it would have been better if Flynn _had_ known about it, and had told Lucy and Rufus about him. Then at least it would be out in the open.

And what was _actually_ in Lucy's diary?

Flynn's voice taunted, "Do you want to know what she says about you?"

He really would have preferred it, if that next sentence had been—Wyatt is Rittenhouse.

But instead, Flynn gave a half-smile, and continued, "What she says about your wife?"

And there it had been….the story of his wife's murder. The story that apparently Flynn….and some version of Lucy….had known all along. And then that bastard Flynn was trying to tell him that he somehow understood….that the two of them were somehow the same. Wyatt knew he had made things worse, by losing control. Even as he shouted at Flynn, he hated himself for it, because he knew that he was only showing the man that, at some level, he agreed.

Somehow that day, his team had once again managed to avert disaster, and they had gotten back to the present physically unscathed. All because of Rufus and Lucy, of course. But other significant non-physical damage had been done. At first, it was damage that Wyatt thought might be unrepairable. Because….it wasn't just Lucy. After they'd sent the Doc on her way….and Lucy had asked what their next move was….Rufus had told him. And he had understood the look of trepidation in Lucy's eyes, as Rufus' confession about making recordings for Rittenhouse had sent him reeling.

* * *

That night had found Wyatt sitting on his bed, trying once again to pull connections together from Jess' case. Except his mind….and his heart, for that matter, just weren't in it. He was still pissed off….pissed off at his team, for hiding things from him, pissed off at himself, for getting so attached to them….mostly just pissed off at the entire mess of a situation he found himself in….that they all found themselves in. He knew that his reactions to the revelations of Lucy's diary and Rufus' recordings hadn't been his finest moments….but as he set his darker compartments free, allowing himself to wallow in the anger, he wasn't sure he even cared.

He couldn't figure out why it had all bothered him so much. It wasn't like he was _unaware_ that Rittenhouse was somehow monitoring the missions. Before today, he'd have bet money on there being microscopic listening devices in Mason's hundreds of expertly-crafted outfits. But to know it was Rufus….and that he had been _aware_ of what he was doing….Wyatt's anger flashed. Rufus was supposed to be the honest one….the moral compass of the group. But, even in his anger, Wyatt knew he wasn't being fair. Rittenhouse had threatened Rufus' family….and went to great and theatrical lengths to show him what they were capable of. They threatened _Rufus_ ….who, until recently hardly ever got out from behind a computer. What was he supposed to know, about spying and conspiracies, and secret organizations? He was just trying to keep the people he cared about alive.

Wyatt re-directed his anger in-ward, for a moment, cultivating that garden of self-loathing that had been growing over the years. _He_ was the military professional here….the one that should be expected to handle the mission professionally….and he was the one that was failing. He wasn't a good team member—he was keeping things….things that were important to the mission, from both of them. How could he fulfill the mission, protect the team….when he was actively lying to them through omission? There was the big lie—that he was taking his orders from Rittenhouse. Although, technically, he told himself, he wasn't _really_ following those orders. Well, he was….but it was because he _wanted_ to, not because Rittenhouse told him to….and surely, that had to count for something. His own words circled back around, mocking him. _The truth is not complicated_. But he knew there were other lies, as well. _He_ knew what Rittenhouse was…well, kind of. And he wasn't telling them, wasn't sharing that information with his team. And although he now better understood Rittenhouse's connection to Rufus….he still had no idea on their plans for Lucy….and he hadn't told his team about those concerns, either. Add to that, that even though he still believed the man was a creepy sociopath, he now believed that Flynn _hadn't_ killed his family—that it was all Rittenhouse,—well there was yet another important piece of information that he hadn't told his team.

Flynn. Without warning, his anger circled outward again, finding a new target in Lucy. What had she been doing, chit-chatting with the man. And the diary! What was he supposed to think about that? Flynn was always a step ahead of them, and the diary meant that was somehow….on her, wasn't it? That she was actively helping Flynn…..even if it was some future or past or alternate version of her….or whatever the hell was going on. Even as feelings of shame began to grow because of this train of thought, and tried to push their way into his consciousness, his unfettered, pain-driven anger continued rolling.

That diary drove Flynn at the Hindenburg— _that_ was why her sister was gone. She gets to lecture him on how Jessica was somehow supposed to be dead….but that it was somehow wrong that her sister was gone. What gave her the right to decide? And there was something else….something he hadn't told Lucy that he knew….yet. She had made a deal with Agent Christopher—she would get to have her sister back. Agent Christopher had told him about the little deal right after the Alamo—told him that it would be an additional mission, added at some point to their roster. As though he was supposed to be _thrilled_ about that….as though he was supposed to think it was a great idea….to make sure Lucy got everything she wanted. So, apparently Lucy got to decide who exists or doesn't exist, and he's supposed to congratulate her. She goes on and on in that stupid diary that Flynn gets to read, talking about how _he_ needs to let go of Jessica….but apparently it's okay for her to _not_. She gets to make a deal, but he is supposed to just let it go?

A wave of nausea swept through Wyatt, as the shame that had been building in his subconscious finally pushed its way through to his conscious brain. _Fuck_. He bent at the waist, holding his head in his hands, close to his knees. He was being horrible. None of this was her fault. Lucy…..he had known just by watching her how much the mere existence of that diary terrified her. How was she truly dealing with any of it? Having to listen to Flynn praising her, talking about how she would be of great help to him, one day….when all she could see was Flynn taking a wrecking ball to the past….and to her present. She couldn't be expected to even process any of this...let alone be held responsible. And her deal with Christopher? Good on her.

Then he heard his own voice, echoing around the room…. _I don't trust either of you_. He knew how deep those words would have cut….especially for her…..especially after her Alamo admission. At the time, he was _glad_ , he'd wanted to hurt them, the way they had hurt him. At least, that's what he'd told himself. But now, all he felt was shame-because he knew he wasn't really mad at them. He was mad at himself….and he was also mad at Rittenhouse. Because they got to play their games, hold things over people's heads….make good people do questionable things….all to get what they wanted. And, as far as he could tell….they were never held accountable. What kind of world was this….where people like that got rewarded….where people like that were able to make people like Rufus and Lucy feel like they were somehow in the wrong….

And why hadn't Cahill told him? Cahill tells him this is his mission, and that Rittenhouse is _monitoring_ the mission…but doesn't mention that he has Rufus making recordings? Why not? Because they didn't trust him, obviously….which didn't surprise him….and actually made him feel a little bit happier. But, if that was the case, what _else_ weren't they telling him? How was Lucy connected to _any_ of this? He had already decided that it was his job to protect her from them….but how could he do that, when he had no idea how the threat would show itself? Rittenhouse was going to recruit her, that seemed clear….there was no other reason for Cahill's bizarre interest in her; in him pulling whatever strings he pulled to get Lucy assigned to this mission. But why? They could have assigned _any_ historian….and surely there were some out there with ideals more in-line with Rittenhouse's mission statement….whatever the hell that was. A snippet of his earlier conversation with Cahill echoed in his brain. It wasn't _just_ Cahill….someone else, whoever it was who had tried to remove him from the mission, had some interest in Lucy too…. What was going on?

Wyatt straightened on the bed, sighing. As he lifted his head from his hands, he noted that his eyes were wet with tears. _When had that happened?_ Blinking them away, he closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing—trying to clear the anger and guilt from his mind. He was mildly surprised to realize, once he had pushed back the blackness enough to be back in his right mind again, that what was still sticking with him, what was still _irritating_ him…..was that damn journal entry that Lucy had written about him. But why should it bother him? He had barely seen the page. It was fully possible that Flynn had taken it out of context….or that he had just gone and made part of it up, to make it a part of his mind games. But the facts of the case had been correct.

Flynn said that the Lucy in the diary didn't always sound like Wyatt's Lucy, that sometimes she sounded….crazy. Why should Wyatt waste time worrying about what crazy Lucy from a different timeline thought about his focus on saving his wife? Why should he care about what _any_ Lucy thought of him, at all? But the thought continued...and it embedded itself in that back corner of his mind.

He sighed again, rubbing at his temples. He knew well enough what had driven him to this point tonight—why he had lashed out at his friends, for their perceived betrayals….even though neither of them would ever purposefully betray him if they had a choice. He knew why it had all hurt so much. It hurt because it was like they were holding up a mirror. Because the only team member actively engaged in deception, right now, was him. He was the one that was hiding things from them—and not because of any noble reason, like protecting his family….well, not really. He knew Rittenhouse would have gone after his Grandfather long ago, if they had truly wanted too. So why? Why was he hiding what he knew and….who he was...from them? Because he was ashamed, of course….and perhaps because he was afraid of losing their trust? Possibly….but that didn't ring true to him….they would understand, _somehow_ , wouldn't they? Surely they would see his transgressions as unavoidable….like the diary, or the recordings. His own words echoed back to him again….not a source of anger or mockery this time, but instead, seeming to allow him to draw strength…. _the truth isn't complicated_.

He'd made his mind up, then and there, that he would tell them the next morning—he would tell Lucy and Rufus _everything_. He would tell them about Daelman, Cahill….and what he knew about Rittenhouse. Feeling slightly better, the nausea abating with the decision made, he raised his gaze back to Jessica's wall, with the intention of re-focusing on her case.

It was only then, gazing at her picture, that it hit him.

If he told them, if he told his team….Rittenhouse would find out about it. He was under no allusions that Carlin's recordings were Rittenhouse's only source of information. He couldn't imagine Denise Christopher being involved….but there were a lot of other people at Mason Industries. Who knew, maybe Mason himself was Rittenhouse….Flynn had suggested as much earlier that day.

So if he told them, if he told Lucy and Rufus….and Rittenhouse found out about it? Every little tidbit learned about Rittenhouse made them all question the mission. Made them all question who the real villain was in the story. If he added more fuel to the fire, pointed the finger at Rittenhouse for being involved in Flynn's family's murder….maybe even involved with Jess…. Rittenhouse would not be happy. And he knew that even Cahill's strange loyalty to him wouldn't be able to save him, then. Rittenhouse would make sure that he was out of the picture….in more ways than one. And then what? There'd be no justice for Jess. And no one to protect Rufus…..no one to protect Lucy. For the first time, he wasn't sure which of those thoughts scared him the most.

He _couldn't_ tell them….not now. And so he spent the rest of the night that way, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at Jess' wall….just letting his friend, the darkness, swirl around him, again.

* * *

 _Hey guys, Episode 6 and the first couple scenes of episode 7 were a big problem for me, with regards to this story. So, like any good procrastinator, I left writing this part of the story to the very end of my out-line process! The probably-obvious problem was that, in light of the background I've created, Wyatt comes off as a real a-hole when you think about those scenes….and I didn't want that. Or, if he *had* to come off as an a-hole, I wanted it to be at least a short-term a-hole, with mitigating circumstances! So….hopefully my "emotional work around" for those two eps reads true to you!_

 _Also, if you're yelling at your preferred reading screen "JUST TELL HER, YOU IDIOT", know that you're not alone….I'm pretty much yelling it at my screen as I type, too….but that's not going to happen, not yet, anyway. But I *do* hope, when taken from Wyatt's perspective, that his reasons for not telling Lucy make sense….even though we, on the outside, can see that all he is truly doing is digging a deeper and deeper hole for himself!_

 _Use the box to let me know what you think—can you understand his decisions from his perspective? Or is he just being an idiot?_


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's Note Aug. 29-I messed up the posting...I think I've got it fixed now-sorry if it messed things up from a reading perspective!_

* * *

 _Hey everyone! A huge thank you to everyone who's been reading, and to those who have been reading and reviewing—especially those "guest" reviewers that I can't thank personally. All of the support has been *super* encouraging, in helping me get through this story._

 _Some Season 1 episodes are very clear with regard to their relative timing to the episodes that come before and after them….and others are not. For the purposes of this story, I'm saying that there is a passage many weeks, and multiple missions that we aren't privy to, between episodes 7 and 9. I just needed some time for relationships to continue developing between our time-travellers!_

 _Even though it is still important to the overall plot….parts of this next chapter are going to be about as close as I get to "fluff" in this story! But don't worry, readers who are angst-junkies….there's plenty here for you too. Hope everyone enjoys!_

* * *

 _From Chapter 11:_

 _So if he told them, if he told Lucy and Rufus….and Rittenhouse found out about it? Every little tidbit learned about Rittenhouse made them all question the mission. Made them all question who the real villain was in the story. If he added more fuel to the fire, pointed the finger at Rittenhouse for being involved in Flynn's family's murder….maybe even involved with Jess…. Rittenhouse would not be happy. And he knew that even Cahill's strange loyalty to him wouldn't be able to save him, then. Rittenhouse would make sure that he'd be out of the picture….in more ways than one. And then what? There'd be no justice for Jess. And no one to protect Rufus…..no one to protect Lucy. For the first time, he wasn't sure which of those thoughts scared him the most._

 _He_ couldn't _tell them….not now. And so he spent the rest of the night that way, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at Jess' wall….just letting his friend, the darkness, swirl around him, again._

* * *

Chapter 12:

Wyatt knew his team members were doing their best….they were trying to survive, and preserve whatever they could of the past….and of the present. And he didn't blame them for the clandestine diaries and secret recording devices….not really. He actually came to view both things as possible benefits. The diary—well that explained in part why Flynn was always a step ahead….it wasn't just because Wyatt was incompetent. And the recordings? Wyatt saw within them a slim chance at redemption. He'd meant every word he said to Rufus….that he needed Rufus to spy on Rittenhouse, and bring the information back to him, while the time team continued to record missions, feeding Rittenhouse just the information that they wanted the organization to know. But even with all that logic, sometimes….when his darker compartments swirled, he still had thoughts….thoughts about not being able to rely on his team, thoughts about secrets they might be keeping….which was completely ridiculous….when he was the one with the secrets. Secrets that he desperately wanted to tell them, to free him of their overwhelming weight….but he just couldn't.

The realization that he _couldn't_ share his Rittenhouse issues with Lucy and Rufus did nothing to improve Wyatt's mood. Neither did trudging through 1754 for three days with no idea of what they were trying to stop Flynn from doing. He'd been annoyed, tired, and hungry….and damn it if some of Flynn's head games from the seventies didn't come back to roost. Because, there he went, telling Lucy and Rufus he needed a team, people he could really rely on….and implying that that wasn't them. _Shit_. He'd also taken that opportunity to let Lucy know that he knew about her deal with Agent Christopher...which went about as well as he should have expected. Was he trying to pick a fight with her? Maybe. What did it matter? He was already lying to her….she shouldn't trust him. Maybe it was for the best, if she disliked him, too.

* * *

He'd been ridiculous, back then. Wyatt sighed, listening to the rain increase in strength again outside his building. Now it was pounding against the window he was leaning against. Straightening, he began pacing in front of the window, shaking his head at some of the things he had told himself, at the time. Even while he'd realized what was going on, realized he was really angry at himself, and at Rittenhouse—but was just taking it out on Lucy and Rufus—well, it still could have all ended in disaster for them….and certainly could have spelled the end of their fledgling team. But for once, circumstances had played in their favour. Although the mere thought of 1754 doing them a favour made him laugh…but there it was. Because perhaps there was something to be said for the clarity that came from making a monumental decision—like whether to remain stranded in Colonial America, or to take the leap, knowing that, in all likelihood, you wouldn't survive to see the present again. It was like a reset, for the team—because everything had been better, after that. It would be ludicrous to suggest that the decision to try to return to the present had chased away all his darker thoughts….but after 1754, his darker thoughts were _never_ focused on Lucy and Rufus. He knew he could rely on them, and they could rely on him. They were a true team again, and, even more importantly, they were friends again. Wyatt stopped pacing, instead peering into the darkness beyond the window, a wistful smile playing at his lips. And all that other stuff? The Lucy stuff that his treacherous mind had tried to show him, that he'd managed to pack away in its own compartment after Germany and the Alamo? At the time, it had remained buried so deep that Wyatt had very nearly convinced himself it was gone. At the time, he had told himself that yes, Lucy and Rufus were dear to him—they were his friends... _she_ was his friend. Period. Wyatt's smile broadened—he really had been ridiculous, back then.

* * *

Once in the established and safe realm of friends, Wyatt had allowed himself to become closer to his team….and, if he was being honest with himself, especially with Lucy. It had been a long while since he'd had friends….and he was grateful, although that little voice in his head kept reminding him that he didn't deserve any of it.

The trio had taken to eating together, after missions, or going to a local bar that soon became "their place". When Flynn wasn't jumping, Rufus would sometimes invite him over to do perfectly ordinary things like watching the game, or helping him fix the backyard deck. With Lucy? Wyatt found himself doing all kinds of things he wouldn't normally have been doing in his free time. She'd invite him to listen to a guest lecturer at the University that she said he would find interesting, or to go poking around a local antique market for a certain book she was trying to locate as a part of their Flynn research. He never said no to her….no matter how bizarre her chosen activity seemed. And, more and more, it seemed she was inviting him to non-work related activities that he suspected she might normally have done on her own….or perhaps with Amy….but she always gave him some reason why it was important that _he_ accompany her that day. And he never, ever said no to those requests, either. He tried not to think too much about any of it. When his mind started asking the impertinent questions, usually around 2am, he would just tell himself that it was what friends did….and that he had just forgotten what that was like. And when the stupid voice _kept_ asking questions, he would tell himself that maybe he wasn't the only lonely soul in their merry time-travelling band….that maybe Lucy needed a friend, too. And that was something he could actually _do_ for her...something real.

Mission days also took on a new rhythm and pattern, with Lucy as a friend. Wyatt had learned early on that Lucy had trouble turning their missions off, once they had returned to the 21st century…..a phenomenon that he was also quite familiar with. When they weren't going out for dinner or drinks with Rufus….or increasingly, even when they _were_ , she would end up back at his apartment, later that night. They would watch old movies, or listen to music, sometimes for hours….until she would suddenly spring from the couch, announcing that she was ready to go home. It was happening often enough, that, without even really thinking about it, Wyatt had started buying the type of flavoured popcorn and snack mixes that she liked, and started stocking his liquor cabinet with her preferred drinks. One night, when sleep wasn't coming, and he'd gone into the kitchen to look for something to sooth him, that annoying voice in his mind had started up again, deciding to take that opportunity to call him out on what, _precisely_ , was going on in his kitchen cabinets. But he had pushed it away, telling the voice that, after all, it was just what friends did.

On two occasions, Wyatt had returned to his apartment after a mission—and after running an errand—to find Lucy sitting on the floor of his foyer, outside his door, arms wrapped around her knees.

"Sorry," she had said, both times, "I should have told you I was coming".

When it happened a third time, he was ready for her.

As he ushered her in, balancing the bag of groceries he'd picked up on his hip, he reassured her, as he always did. "Nothin' to be sorry for Lucy….you're welcome anytime….you don't need an appointment." He set the groceries on the counter.

"I know….but, really, I should have just told you, back at Mason Industries. I just….hadn't really decided….yet."

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Don't worry about it."

She looked at him with obvious gratitude in her eyes, tinged with just a bit of embarrassment.

He opened the drawer beside his sink, "But, I don't like you having to sit out there, waiting for me….I seriously have no idea when the last time was that floor was swept….I'm not convinced it's happened at all, during the Obama administration."

"So…." he held his hand, clenched in a fist, out toward her. "I got something for you."

She looked at him quizzically, "What did you do?"

"Hold out your hand….it's not going to bite, I promise."

She shook her head slowly, but obeyed, holding her hand out under his fist.

Wyatt opened his fist, and the silver key he had taken from the drawer slipped into her hand. "There, your own key to this place….no more sitting on that disgusting floor."

"Wyatt," she looked up at him in surprise, "You don't have to….you don't need to do that….you need your privacy…."

"What?" he motioned around the quiet apartment, "Does it look like I'm lacking privacy in my life? I meant what I said before Lucy—you come here whenever you need to….whenever you want to."

"You're sure?"

He smiled reassuringly at her, as he reached for her wine bottle in his bag of groceries. "I'm sure."

She nodded, pocketing the key in her sweater.

"Although," he began, "I guess we should lay down a few ground rules…."

"Ground rules?"

"Yeah," he smirked, "Like, you're not going to be hosting any raves in here, not while I'm not around at least."

She giggled, just a bit.

"And no surprise re-decorating, either….I _like_ the beige and oatmeal of it all, okay?"

She was truly laughing now, something Wyatt took as a big win. It had been a rough mission, and it usually took her hours after a mission like that before she could laugh again.

He nodded his head at her, handing her her glass of wine, while he poured his own whisky. "Come on, let's go find a movie."

He followed her into his living room, loving the feeling of warmth that was slowly filling him. He liked having her here…..liked sharing this with her. And when she was here, the other stuff—the darkness, the lies, the secrets, the guilt, the pain—it all seemed a little further away. Because that was what good friends did.

* * *

Wyatt had never been much for blind faith in….anything. In his life, he'd seen too much, experienced too many things that had turned south on a dime, and had had way too much experience with the unfairness of it all, to be able to give up control like that—to be able to put his faith in someone, something, or in the universe as a whole, and take a leap. And yet, he realized, he had started to do that more and more frequently….with his new team. Each time they got in that machine….wasn't he putting all his faith in Rufus' piloting skills? Wyatt had no idea how piloting the Lifeboat worked….and he was pretty sure he didn't _want_ to know….because he suspected it was likely crazy complicated and finicky…..and the fact that Rufus continued to pull off safe journeys repeatedly was really something he didn't want to look too closely at. And the 1754 mission leap back to the present….well that hadn't just been faith in his trio, had it? It had been faith in the group at Mason Industries….in Jiya, in Agent Christopher….but mostly, he was pretty sure that it had been faith in some sort of guiding hand that was bigger than them all….and where the hell had _that_ come from?

But that was the thing. Once you _started_ doing something….like having faith….it became all the easier to do it again. And to do it in different ways. Because a leap of faith with his physical safety at risk….that was one thing. But a leap of faith that could endanger his inner self, his emotional safety….that was something else entirely. And yet….it had happened. One night, without any particular fanfare, Wyatt decided to take a big leap of faith…and hope, and tell Lucy Jessica's story.

It was shortly after their NASA adventure, but before Arkansas. It was so strange, Wyatt thought, that this was how he now dated things. Time travel seemed to send his internal clock out of kilter. Half the time, he didn't even know what month it was, anymore. Sometimes, given the generally kind climate he was living in—he had to think extra hard to even remember what _season_ it was….but he could always sequence and order his recent life events by time-jump. So, it was shortly after their NASA adventure that Lucy had mentioned she hadn't yet had a chance to watch "Weapon of Choice". Rufus had, predictably, decided to spend the night at MI, working with Jiya on some unfathomable coding exercise to improve the Lifeboat's tracking—whatever the hell that meant—so Wyatt had suggested Lucy come over to his place. He told her he was excited to watch it, neglecting to mention he had already seen it four times—crap, how often did he do that? Lie to her by omission? But, the bonus of having seen the movie four times was that, instead of the movie, he was able to watch _her_ watch the movie. She would squeal and cover her eyes, during the kissing scenes between James Bond and "her". And when Bond took "her" to his bed, she suddenly rushed off to the kitchen, begging Wyatt to tell her when it was "safe" to come back in. It was just so….cute. Lucy would hate that word, but it was the only word for it. _And_ incredibly endearing….okay, so there were two words for it.

After the movie, they had just gotten to talking….about _everything_. And he went for it….decided to tell her about how Jess died. Perhaps the fact that another "him" had already confided in the Lucy from Flynn's diary had emboldened him. He had intended to give her just the facts of the whole thing….but he had always found it easy to talk to her. And that night, like so many other times, the more he talked, the more he _wanted_ to talk….and that was so not _like_ him….but there it was….and suddenly he found himself telling her _everything_ about Jessica's death—how it happened, how he felt…. He told her about the argument, leaving Jess on the side of the road, the emotions and worry, when they couldn't find her….and then all the blackness that had come….after. Lucy had sat, the whole time, just listening, letting him talk. When he had talked about his guilt and his pain after it all, she had scooted closer to him on the couch, just _being_ there, offering him comfort through her presence.

He had even been brave enough, that night, to tell her that he sometimes wondered if Rittenhouse could have been involved in Jessica's death. She had pulled back from him, slightly, at that remark. A quizzical look flashed across her face. He'd tried to protect himself then, babbling something about Rittenhouse's possible role in the murder of Flynn's family. She'd looked at him then, not with pity or disbelief...just with an expression that she was trying to understand. His heart beat in his ears, as he already knew what she was going to say….what she was going to ask….because it was the obvious question….the all-important question. _How had he been stupid enough to set himself up for this….without even realizing?_

"But why Jessica?" she asked.

A feeling of dread filled him—seeming to form in his toes and wash through his whole body. How was he supposed to answer that? And, as though the dread itself had pushed open their locks, his compartments of remorse, guilt, and shame opened, and their blackness began to swirl. The blackness warred with the part of him that desperately wanted to tell her _exactly_ why Jessica.

As it so often seemed to, the blackness had won that battle quickly. He looked back at Lucy, who was still gazing at him, with the question in her eyes. He gave a shaky sigh, and then merely shrugged. Even though he was certain the question remained in her mind, she didn't press further.

* * *

Thinking about that night now….it made him happy, that he had taken that leap. That his faith and trust in her had been repaid through a true connection with another human being….it had been _so_ long since he'd had that. And now? Now that connection had matured, and had grown into all of those possibilities that had danced around them for so long, just out of reach. Wyatt stopped pacing, and took a step toward his bedroom door….a step back toward _her_. Until he pulled himself back. Because what the hell had he done….what the hell had he been _thinking_ ….to let this happen—when he was lying to her. He turned, looking out the window again—fingers gripping the sill so tightly, he knew his knuckles were turning white without having to look at them.

 _Why_ hadn't he taken that extra step? He released the sill and slammed his fists against the wall on either side of the window. Why hadn't he just told her the whole story, that night, when he told her about Jess? It would have been _before_ she knew about her mother….and her biological father. But he hadn't been able to tell her that night—because he was scared. Scared that Rittenhouse would find out he had told her. Scared that, even more than his role in Jess' death, telling Lucy that he was a part of Rittenhouse would drive her away. He had been afraid she wouldn't trust him anymore, that she wouldn't be there for him, anymore. Hell, at the time he had even thought she might run to Flynn with the information….

But there was another reason, why he hadn't told her that night….a reason that he still worried about, now. During moments of quiet, Flynn's words from 1972 would frequently float back into the forefront of his mind. _The Lucy in the diary sounded crazy_. What could possibly make his Lucy so un-stable? Even now, perhaps even _more so_ , now, the more traitorous parts of his mind were happy to provide him with an answer. What if the other him….the diary him…. _had_ told Lucy that he was Rittenhouse too? Could that have been what caused such a change in her? Could he be responsible for that too?

So he hadn't told her that night….to protect her from feeling betrayed, to protect himself, and in some half-baked attempt to ward off a future predicted in a diary that hadn't been written yet.

It wasn't lost on Wyatt that the great irony was that, by _not_ telling her about his Rittenhouse ties the night he had told her about Jess, he had made things infinitely worse. He knew Lucy's reaction _now_ would be tenfold what it might have been then. He had been so brave that night, talking to her….why couldn't he have been just that tiny bit braver?

* * *

After their night watching "Weapon of Choice", his connection with Lucy started growing faster. It was probably inevitable….once he had started talking to her, opening up to her. But as that connection grew, so did his worry, and guilt, about what he was hiding from her. And as the connection, and the worry, and the guilt built? So did his dread about what Rittenhouse had planned for her. He'd desperately set his mind to the task of finding a solution, a work-around to the seemingly impossible situation—to somehow let Lucy know about what was going on with him, and to let her know his concern that Rittenhouse was coming for her as well. And yet, he had to find a way to do all that without putting her or Rufus in danger…..and without destroying his ability to find justice for Jess.

The problem was...he had no idea how to proceed. Using the recordings _against_ Rittenhouse was only a half-plan….and he knew it. Because what good was it, trying to control the information that was flowing in to Rittenhouse, when he didn't know what other sources they had….and when he had no idea what they were using the information for? And, poor Rufus, he'd really been trying—he'd really been trying to bring Wyatt information about Rittenhouse…..but Wyatt truly didn't know what he'd ever expected to come from that. Did he really think Rufus would be able to learn more than Wyatt already knew….when Wyatt was the Rittenhouse asset? So far all that Rufus had been able to tell him was that Rittenhouse was scary….and that Mason was shady. Not exactly news, on either count.

Wyatt had even considered giving up the pretense all together, and just going to Cahill with the information that he knew about Rufus and the recordings. He'd had a half-formed thought about possibly waving his gun around, and being able to intimidate Cahill into explaining what Rittenhouse was up to. Yet….that all seemed unlikely….since it was Rittenhouse that held all the leverage in the situation. And besides, it might endanger Rufus' family….and Wyatt couldn't have that on his conscience too.

So, he'd added another column, to Jess' board. A board that he now turned backward and covered every morning, since giving Lucy a key. Not that he thought she'd go snooping in his bedroom….but, if this time-travelling assignment had taught him anything, it was that you just never knew. So Jess' board had a new column—filled with everything he knew about Rittenhouse. The meeting locations he had provided security for, all those years ago. The people….current and historic….that he believed to be connected. The dates that seemed significant. Problem was….it wasn't a very large column. And there was an even bigger problem. Something that had been rattling around in his brain, bothering him, since 1972. Rittenhouse didn't keep written records….at least, not of their membership….and, chances were, not of anything else important, either. So what good was any of this going to do him? What was he going to do, go to the authorities and announce that there was a clandestine organization that included a military general and some guy named Cahill….and, oh yeah, Nixon and Agent Daelman had been a part of it too? And then tell them this group had done terrible things in the past, was still doing terrible things…except he didn't know what they were….and that they had possibly killed the Flynn family as well as Wyatt's wife….maybe? And, if he did that, what would he _say_ when he was asked for his sources and his evidence? Tell them that he got it all from a diary that hadn't been written yet, the word of a wanted terrorist….and, oh yeah, from travelling through time to listen to the erased part of the Watergate tapes? This was not going to work.

He knew to _make_ it work, he and his team were going to need help. Somebody on their side, that they could trust, who knew they weren't completely crazy, and who could somehow communicate that to the authorities….create a cover-story….or something. They needed to tell Agent Christopher what they knew about Rittenhouse. He'd already suggested it once, casually, but Rufus wouldn't hear of it. Not that Wyatt blamed him, since, from Rufus' perspective, the only lives on the line were that of his family. But he just couldn't think of another option. He'd have to keep working on Rufus, make him see the benefit. Wyatt was pretty sure Lucy would be on board, as long as Rufus said it was okay.

Working on a way to bring down Rittenhouse without hurting anyone or anything he cared about became his new focus, his new plan….on top of protecting his team, history, and America, of course….until somehow, Wyatt's life became even more complicated.

* * *

There were some missions that demanded an extra session at the gym….and this had been one of them. Wyatt had worked-out until he could barely stand….desperately hoping that the physical exhaustion would settle his mind. Even as he left the gym, surprised at how dark it was—it was far later than he had thought, he supposed, although who the hell could keep track of such things, anymore—he knew that even physical exhaustion wasn't going to help him calm himself, tonight.

Only half-aware, Wyatt had pulled his truck into his usual spot in front of his building, entered his apartment, and locked the door behind him. He was reasonably certain that Lucy wouldn't be visiting tonight….but he still scanned the living room as he entered. He inwardly rolled his eyes at the tiny part of him that was disappointed to not see her there. _Get a grip Logan, it's not like she visits after_ every _mission._ Even though, at the moment, he couldn't remember the last time she hadn't come over. He shucked off his shoes and jacket, letting them trail behind him on the ground, the thought to pick them up not even entering his mind….because he was on a new mission. He went into the kitchen, and poured himself a drink. Glass in hand, he'd been several steps into the living room when he relented. He retraced his steps back into the kitchen, and grabbed the bottle, to bring it with him. _Definitely a smart idea_ he told himself, as he set the bottle on the coffee table, and sank into the couch with his glass. He was going to need more than one, tonight.

He closed his eyes, savouring the familiar flavour of the whisky. His mind was going in a million directions at once, but he focused in on a single stray, and surprising, thought. He was _glad_ that Lucy decided not to visit tonight. Because Arkansas had been….interesting. Famous bank robbers and murderers, mysterious Rittenhouse keys inscribed in Latin, he knew it wasn't going to be either of these things that would keep him awake tonight. Things had changed. Perhaps the heart-to-heart after the Moon Shot had laid the ground work….but, if he was honest with himself, things had quietly been chugging along in this new direction, for some time. The conversation about Jess, Lucy talking about her sister or her fears about meeting her biological father, the high level of emotion they seemed to work under on a regular basis, late night drinks and conversation, _and_ that entire compartment of stuff from Germany and the Alamo that he had buried…. It really shouldn't have surprised him, when he'd _felt something_ , during that kiss. But surprise him it did….and perhaps that was an understatement. Rocked him to his very core, more like. Apparently self-knowledge wasn't one of his strong suits.

He closed his eyes, leaning back against the worn couch. How the hell had everything gone crazy…. _where had he lost control_?

She really was a terrible liar….he'd seen her floundering….trying to come up with an engagement story….and had seen a suspicious flash in Clyde's eyes. Without really thinking, he jumped in. An engagement was something he could talk about….something he would never forget….and luckily, his and Jess' story hadn't even involved any modern technology. He had them….Clyde was convinced, and Bonnie even more so—she had loved the dropping the ring bit. He'd known she would, Lord knew he'd seen plenty of Jess' girlfriends and female relatives eat that part of the story up. It was easy. At least, it should have been. But then he had to go and take it a step too far.

What did he think was going to happen, kissing her, like that? But, of course, that _was_ the problem, wasn't it. He hadn't been thinking. A voice floated through his head which he immediately recognized as Grandpa Sherwin's. _Wyatt, if you're not going to think first….the best course of action is always to say and do nothing….in fact, that's often the best plan even if you_ do _think first_. But somewhere, in a deep corner of his brain, Wyatt knew he _still_ wasn't being totally honest with himself. Because he had thought about it….just a little bit. They were pretending to be a couple, and that was what couples did, right? It would keep her safe, and that was all he really cared about. And as she had sat there, listening to his story about his proposal, so many years ago…..her face had just been so full of caring and support. So yes, before it happened, he actually _did_ have a single, simple thought: _What could be the possible harm?_

Well….now he knew. In all likelihood, that possible harm included a multitude of sleepless nights, and, if he wasn't careful, the potential for debilitating awkwardness with his best friend. Because kissing her had been the emotional equivalent of pulling back the curtain….s _hit_. He drained his glass, and poured another. The bottle had been a very good idea, indeed. He'd been so shocked, so confused by his feelings during that kiss….and he still was. But why? What did he think kissing her would feel like? Like Lucy, he supposed-soft and warm and strong, and safe. Except, that was where he had miscalculated, because the feelings he had experienced….were anything but _safe_. It had started out like he expected, warmth, comfort, and that _rightness_ that had always been a part of his Lucy compartment. But then, following quickly at those feelings' heels….he could _feel_ the electric friction, the sparking of long-dormant synapses in his brain. The feeling like his body was inundated with charged particles racing toward each other, like some kind of unstoppable natural force….until a wall of blackness, or nothingness, more appropriately, had slammed down on his awareness—protecting him from feeling anything more. It seemed a lifetime passed, until his awareness returned, but it must have been no time at all, as he realized her fingers were still whispering against his cheek. And her eyes. God, her eyes—darker than he had ever seen them, deep pools of questioning….but with something else there too….something that looked very much like….longing….desire. Oh—how long had she felt that way? Shit. How long had _he_?

As that realisation dissipated, it was quickly replaced by a rush of new emotions….guilt, regret, and pain. Because he couldn't be confused that way….he couldn't feel those feelings. Not now. Not for her. Then, there had been that quick chaser of fear. Because, if he could recognize her feelings during that kiss just by looking in her eyes….could she tell what he had felt? Thankfully, some part of Wyatt's brain had been able to remember he was part of an active mission still, and he'd been able to pull himself out of it—push the feelings and the _thinking_ to the side….push her eyes out of his head for the time being….and just focus on the mission. Trusting the mission, he'd been able to function like a normal human being again….until they had to share that stupidly small bed.

It wasn't like they'd never shared a bed or been in close quarters before….but in the shadow of that kiss, a swirling cloud of confusion and arousal and pain and affection had started circling him again. And then, because this was still _Lucy_ , she started talking. About love, and fate, and lightning bolts. And then he was talking too….crap, he had to stop doing that around her. She'd had the nerve to call him on it—call him on being all about choose your own destiny….except when it came to love. But he could have called her out on the same thing—well, on the reverse of it, anyway. Here she goes on and on about destiny and "meant to bes"…..but looks at love like some mutually agreed upon business venture? But then, just as he'd been about to say something about that….well then she actually _went_ there—asking him if Jess was the only one for him, if that meant he had to be alone….suggesting that he needed to be open to possibilities….she said _we_ have to be open to possibilities. It was just about the bravest thing he'd ever heard anyone say….or the most foolhardy. She must have sensed it, sensed the way he was feeling….to be brave enough to say that….was she telling him that that she felt that way too?

He took another drink. Because that was the worst of it….not the kiss, not the feelings….not the sharing of the bed. But when she asked him—if losing his one and only meant that he was destined to be alone—it had filled him with an aching, a longing, that he couldn't bear. In that moment, he was so desperate to believe her—that there could be other possibilities, other possibilities with _her_ …. Given just another moment, that reckless part of him would have done it….would have answered that longing, that aching and kissed her again….and would have found out if lighting could actually strike twice.

But of course fate, or the force….or maybe just lousy timing and dumb luck had intervened, and he had lost that opportunity. And, after the gun play and the running….well there was a long journey for the trio to get back to their time machine….that gave him a lot of time to think. Where did all of this leave them? Because he had to fix this….to save the team, to save their friendship. He didn't want her guessing at his thoughts….believing that he was having thoughts or feelings that he could never have. He was feeling guilty enough….he didn't want to lead her on, when it could never come to anything. That is….if she even felt that way, about him. Because during the walk back to the Lifeboat….the obvious had occurred to him. That when she said _we_ have to be open to possibilities….that maybe she meant "we" as in the two of them, but each in their own separate circumstances….or worse yet, maybe she had even meant him being open to someone as of yet undefined….and _her_ being open to Noah. Crap. Stupid Noah. Was that what she meant? _She needed to cut that guy loose….let him be with who he was meant to be with…._ But just at that moment during their journey and during his thoughts, she had turned back to him….after accidentally running into a low-hanging tree branch, and flashed him a smile that almost made him melt….and there was no way she smiled at Noah like that, was there? And, back in the Lifeboat again, as he'd done up her restraints, she'd mouthed "thank you" to him….and she didn't have that kind of connection with Noah, did she? Crap. What had that kiss done to him? He had to fix this.

So, finally back safe at Mason Industries, he did his best to leave the whole thing on a positive note, on a friendship note, and on a just doing my job note. And she seemed to buy it….even seemed to agree with him. Even though there was no way that his explanation for that kiss came anywhere close to addressing what they both knew….that he had nearly kissed her _again_ in that bed, in private. But, for whatever reason, she didn't call him on it. Perhaps she also felt it seemed most prudent, in the light of the 21st Century, he supposed.

 _Ugh_. Wyatt rubbed his forehead, reliving the whole incident again. What had he been doing? Talking about Jess and their engagement one minute….feeling _something_ for Lucy, the next. Another flash of self-annoyance washed through him….and his mind certainly hadn't been focused on the mission, at that point, had it? What if she had pulled back, or even slapped him in shock, when he kissed her? That would have ended their little ruse, real quick. That thought gave Wyatt pause….how had he known that she _wouldn't_ do that? A new rush of thoughts and feelings emerged….until he forced them to stop. _No_. He could _not_ do this….it wasn't fair, to anyone. It wasn't fair to Lucy, to Jess, to himself….and if it kept his mind off the mission, it could get his whole team killed.

He knew well enough that there was going to be no putting this all back into its compartment. _What was he going to do?_ He was going to have to deal with this, somehow. He glanced at the clock on the wall. But probably best not to do that at one in the morning. He finished his glass, setting it back down on the coffee table, and closed his eyes, leaning back against the couch cushions. Sleep was _so_ not happening for him tonight. His mind started drifting back to the kiss again….and for a moment, he allowed it….to re-experience the way it felt, her breath on him, then her lips, her fingers on his cheek…. _Stop_ , he told himself. But his more treacherous mind took over and continued the memory; laughing at him…. _because you like this….you need this_ …. He shook his head harshly, and stood, pushing himself from the couch. It didn't matter….none of it _could_ matter….because even if there was a part of him that liked it….he certainly didn't deserve it….didn't deserve her. He marched back into the kitchen, returning the bottle, realizing he hadn't eaten in hours….but the dill-pickle flavoured popcorn in the cupboard mocked him….and then the half-drunk bottle of white wine in the fridge joined in.

So he wasn't going to be sleeping….and apparently wasn't going to be eating, either. And he was tired of being alone with his thoughts in the empty apartment. He grabbed his jacket up off the floor, slipped on his shoes, and went for a walk, in the quiet of the night.

No more than ten minutes had passed, when a dark limo came around a corner, and slowed beside him. With some unease, he watched as it pulled over, and the door opened….the occupant motioning him in. Cahill. Wyatt sighed. _Why did he feel like a child, about to be scolded?_ He shoved his hands into his pockets, and, after a moment's pause, got in.

As the car pulled from the curve….driving who knew where, Wyatt watched as Cahill sat across from him….glowering at him.

After a moment, Cahill spoke. Seriously Wyatt?"

Wyatt sighed again, he had no interest in a debrief of recent events with Cahill. "Yeah, Flynn's still out there….and he got your precious key." He continued, hoping to keep Cahill quiet. "But we _will_ get him—and we've been pretty damn successful at scuttling his attempts to change history….to destroy your Rittenhouse….so _don't_ give me a hard time, not tonight."

Cahill waved his statement away. "That's not even what I mean."

He was silent for a moment, and Wyatt turned from the window, to look at him, wondering if he was going to continue.

"I advised you not to get too involved with this team….one thing, the one damn thing I asked you to do.

Wyatt shook his head, slightly, _where was he going with this_?

Cahill continued, "And then? Then you go and kiss my….historian?"

Wyatt slumped back in his seat. "You've got to be kidding me….this is why you're here?" _And—mental note—the wardrobe dock is bugged._ "We were playing a role, and Clyde Barrow wasn't buying it…." He huffed in exasperation. "You know what? I don't know why I am even explaining this to you—the operation details are _my_ domain, remember?"

There was a tone in Cahill's voice that Wyatt had never heard before. He sounded….pissed off. Not irritated, not disappointed….just pissed off. "Operation details, is that what you call it? "That's how you define not getting too involved?"

"Would you really prefer if both our brains were splattered across a cabin in backwoods Arkansas? Besides….when your concerned Rittenhouse member tried to have me replaced, it didn't work—because my team stood up for me….which, by the way, probably wouldn't have happened if I didn't let myself get involved."

Cahill shook his head, and became silent, turning his gaze to the window. "That's not the primary reason I came to see you. This….this whole thing," he waved his hand, "it's becoming out of control."

"No shit."

"I don't think you realize, just how important it is to my group that Flynn is stopped….and stopped now. This was supposed to be easy for you—right in your wheelhouse, remember? Much more of this….and I'm not going to be able to protect you any more, Wyatt."

Wyatt snorted. "You know what? Things are always going to get messy….that's something Daelman taught me. There is always a mess. And your people need to be more comfortable with that. If Rittenhouse still exists….then I think your people should take that as a win."

They both sat in silence, for another block.

"Can I get out now?"

Ben nodded, and motioned to the driver to pull over.

Wyatt made another mental note of the click that indicated previously-locked doors were unlocking. He moved to get out, stepping onto the sidewalk, and then stuck his head back in, with a parting message.

"You know, Ben….your group should be really happy about that win column….there may come a time when the pendulum starts swinging the other way…." He smiled at him, slightly, "….and I may not be able to protect _you_ anymore."

He moved back, now fully out of the vehicle, and walked back into the night, unable to see first the surprise, and then the slow smile, that spread across Cahill's face.


	13. Chapter 13

_Ugh. This working for a living thing can really get in the way of one's Timeless fic writing time! Sorry I haven't updated in a while. Also, these next 2 chapters – it started as 1, but got rather lengthy, so I split it - were annoying to write. Even though I knew what I wanted Wyatt to be thinking about, thematically, I just couldn't seem to get him to "sound" like him….at least, not like how he sounds in the other chapters. shrug Oh well, hope it still sounds enough like him to be believable….and maybe he'll return to his usual voice in the following chapters! For those who like to keep track….I'm thinking now that this story will be 19 chapters, in total._

 _Also, I wanted to thank *everyone* from the bottom of my heart for your reviews and words of encouragement—this fandom is really incredible! I still don't own any of this….any lines sounding familiar have been borrowed from the show-writers! Oh, and one line is a lyric, stolen shamelessly from Matt Dusk's amazing song "Five", 'cause that's what happens when your music playlist is stuck on a loop while you're writing…._

* * *

 _From Chapter 12:_

 _"_ _I don't think you realize, just how important it is to my group that Flynn is stopped….and stopped now. This was supposed to be easy for you—right in your wheelhouse, remember? Much more of this….and I'm not going to be able to protect you any more, Wyatt."_

 _Wyatt snorted. "You know what? Things are always going to get messy….that's something Daelman taught me. There is always a mess. And your people need to be more comfortable with that. If Rittenhouse still exists….then I think your people should take that as a win."_

 _They both sat in silence, for another block._

 _"_ _Can I get out now?"_

 _Ben nodded, and motioned to the driver to pull over._

 _Wyatt made another mental note of the click that indicated previously-locked doors were unlocking. He moved to get out, stepping onto the sidewalk, and then stuck his head back in, with a parting message._

 _"_ _You know, Ben….your group should be really happy about that win column….there may come a time when the pendulum starts swinging the other way…." He smiled at him, slightly, "….and I may not be able to protect you anymore."_

 _He moved back, now fully out of the vehicle, and walked back into the night, unable to see first the surprise, and then the slow smile, that spread across Cahill's face._

* * *

Chapter 13:

Trust the mission. The words echoed in Wyatt's head. Despite the mess of his internal state these past few weeks….that was something he could still do. Christopher had told them that Flynn had gone back in time again, and Lucy said it was likely something to do with Benedict Arnold. She thought he was likely either trying to help Arnold hand West Point over to the British, or trying to target George Washington, personally. Of course, Lucy wasn't sure which option would actually be worse. Fantastic. But still, this was something he could do—a mission that he could trust—to stop Flynn.

Wyatt sighed to himself. He really should have known better….really should have known better than to expect _anything_ , even a mission he could trust, to make sense anymore. Because, here they were, in Benedict Arnold's garden, with General George Freakin' Washington standing in front of them. And what seemed just about right, given the way things were going for them these days, was that Washington probably wanted to execute them, for being spies against the patriot cause. To only add to the crazy, Flynn himself, who Washington apparently _trusted_ , had then waltzed into the room, asking for their help. _Seriously, what was going on with his life, right now?_ Maybe he'd been right all along, and this was some kind of nutty psych test the government had dreamed up.

Standing there in the room, facing off with Flynn, a million thoughts raced through Wyatt's head. They coalesced into one, simple, idea. He could do it….he could do it right here, right now….blow Flynn's brains out, kill one bad guy, and end this whole thing—end all the crazy. If he did that? The team objective would be achieved, and Cahill would be off his back….and then this insane mission would be over. However, if Flynn was to be trusted—and who the hell knew, when it came to that—but, if Flynn was to be trusted, if Wyatt shot Flynn, then Carl, or one of Flynn's other goons—he was sure they had names—would shoot Washington.

Someone would shoot Washington. And _that_ would change history. Wyatt had a fleeting thought of wonder about how much it would _actually_ change history….surely there were other like-minded individuals who could take over in Washington's absence….but history would most definitely change, nonetheless. And if he made that decision to shoot Flynn and endanger Washington, if he made that decision to purposefully change history _that_ much? Then there was a good chance that Lucy would never speak to him again. And even with everything going on in his life—continuing to be trapped inside Rittenhouse, following their questionable and possibly treasonous orders, hiding secrets from his best friends—even with _all_ of it….well, that was the one thing that scared him the most. That Lucy wouldn't be there, in his apartment, after a mission, to critique the deplorable lack of historical accuracy in whatever movie was on TV that night. And apparently, in this crazy reality he now lived where _nothing_ made sense….that was also more important to him than following through with his mission orders. And he really didn't want to think about that anymore….not right now….not when Flynn was ….wait, what was Flynn doing? Oh, right—he was asking for help. It was completely insane. Or, in other words, given Wyatt's new reality….it sounded just about right.

So, the upshot of it was that he didn't shoot. That meant he had to hear Flynn out, about why he wanted their _help_. And it turned out Flynn wasn't even playing mind games...he was completely serious. He needed their help to capture and interrogate Benedict Arnold, who was apparently a founding Rittenhouse dick. You couldn't say that Flynn wasn't single-minded. Not for the first time, Wyatt found himself wondering if Rittenhouse wouldn't have been wiser to just recruit Flynn….rather than antagonize him, back when he'd first discovered that accounting anomaly.

Flynn wanted to go after Arnold, so that he could learn more about Rittenhouse, and use that information to take them out in their infancy….destroy them in the crib. A stray memory whispered through Wyatt's mind—Lucy's voice, saying the same thing about Flynn's possible motives, before they had truly understood—she had speculated that he was trying to kill America in the crib, to re-write history before it was even written. He'd heard her say those words not so long ago….and yet it seemed like innumerable lifetimes had passed, since then.

Wyatt didn't _want_ to like the plan…..didn't want to like anything Flynn suggested. But shit, if the sociopath didn't make a compelling case. If Flynn got his way, if they helped him….Rittenhouse would be gone….gone! And Rittenhouse gone….well wasn't that the answer to everything? No more threats to Rufus' family…..no more worry about what Rittenhouse had planned for Lucy, and Wyatt himself would be free again, finally out from under the lies.

But it would definitely change history, and what would Lucy think? He watched her closely. Then Flynn turned and addressed Lucy directly, giving her pages from the diary as a show of faith, saying that, if she helped him, he would hand Lucy the keys to the Mothership, to stop the madness completely. No more Rittenhouse….and no more chasing Flynn through time. Ripples of hope moved through Wyatt, as he stood there watching Lucy and Flynn. His heart rate increased, though he fought to keep his face blank, to not betray what was going on just beneath the surface. Rittenhouse gone…. Wyatt tried to quiet his inner mind. What would that even feel like, he wondered….to not have that hanging over his head? And then he could even tell his team everything about how he came to be tangled up with Rittenhouse, couldn't he? Because, wouldn't it all be water under the bridge, then? A new thought hit him, like a punch to the stomach. _Jessica_. If there was no Rittenhose, would Jessica be returned to him? He was losing his battle, to keep that neutral face, and frankly, one sweeping glance of the room told him that his teammates were also having difficulties with their poker faces. So he decided to take action, push back against Flynn's plan. He tried to feign nonchalance, disbelief….just to take back some control.

"You're so full of crap, it's coming out of your ears," he scoffed, "We're not going to help you, not after everything we've been through…."

When Wyatt heard Flynn's next statement, time seemed to slow and contract, then quicken and expand, in the space of a blink. Flynn was trying to sweeten the pot, up the ante, even though he hadn't even needed to. The name of Jessica's killer. Flynn would give Wyatt that information. But how could Flynn know that? Flynn spouted off some details of the case—blood on the scene, mile marker 47—but Wyatt knew that all of it could have come from Other-Lucy's journal. So that didn't prove anything. Except….what if it did? Could Wyatt really take that chance? Flynn was ex-NSA, and had actually investigated Rittenhouse….what if he really _did_ know something? Because, if Rittenhouse had killed Jessica, and they were able wipe the group from existence….then his wife would be returned to him. But on the small chance that he was wrong, and it _wasn't_ Rittenhouse who killed her? Then, in that case, that name that Flynn provided could mean _everything_ to Wyatt.

Wyatt glanced over at Lucy again….wordlessly checking in. Even all these months later, Wyatt still made it his job to try to notice everything about her….everything about his team. She'd seemed tired recently on missions, more withdrawn….not always like herself. It was subtle, and it would all but disappear when he spoke to her, or when they were back in the present together….but Wyatt had still noticed. And what was clear to him now, was that when Flynn said that he would stop the madness if they helped him—that if they helped him destroy Rittenhouse, he would stop taking a wrecking ball to time—Wyatt had seen a flash of real hope across her features.

In that moment, seeing that look of hope on her face….Wyatt realized the true stakes. Because it was even bigger than that, even bigger than just the elimination of Rittenhouse, wasn't it? If they did this, then there was a chance that he could be a part of helping to restore Lucy's life to what it was…..to what it was before the Hindenburg. If they made it so that there had never been a Rittenhouse? Lucy might come back to the present to find her sister returned—and she could go back to teaching, and her normal life...and surely that was what she really wanted….what would make her happy? And he needed her to be happy….and he needed Rufus and his family to be safe. And for him? Well, _he_ needed….yet he couldn't even seem to form that thought in his mind. He pushed that curious feeling to the side, and instead focused on the facts. _He_ might come back to Jessica….and what else could change? There would have been no Daelman in his life, he supposed….so his career might have moved in a much more mundane direction….just another grunt in the army….but there was great honour in that….and pride. The ripples of hope in him had turned into a wave, and Wyatt let it wash over him. _Shit_. Even if there was just a one percent chance of _any_ of it working out that way….surely it was worth it?

And so it had been decided. He and his team would enact another giant stage play, this time with Flynn seemingly the director. They were going to help Flynn….to help him capture Arnold, so that Flynn could question him….probably not very nicely. So the Time Team-Flynn alliance had given it a go. And it had gone south _spectacularly_ ….and why should that have surprised him?

They _had_ caught up with Arnold….but then Flynn had been….well, Flynn, and shot Cornwallis. Apparently just because the man truly seemed to have no concept of the word "subtle". And now, they were so far past the point of _not_ changing history that…. _Damn_ —he should have just blown Flynn's head off.

But then it was Arnold's turn to surprise Wyatt, to surprise them all, with a new piece of information. Something of such vital importance, that he honestly couldn't believe that he and his team had never considered it before….that they had never researched it before. Because Rittenhouse hadn't always been a "them". It had started as a "he". David Rittenhouse. One man….one bad man….one bad man who could be stopped….one bad man who could be killed.

Kill one, evil man….to save possibly hundreds…to save Rufus, protect Lucy….and save himself.

But to kill him in cold blood? When Rufus had agreed to it so readily….it had floored Wyatt….he hadn't expected that. Then Flynn's words, _the things we all do for love_ , echoed through Wyatt's brain. Still, Wyatt didn't like it….the idea of an assassination….but if it could really do that much good?

But Lucy was hesitant….because of course it would change history, possibly in major ways. And without really thinking about it….Wyatt had proceeded to talk her into it. He had felt shame, while doing it….because he had pushed every button he knew of to get her to come around. He started talking about all the people she could help….and how, by changing this one small bit of history, it was possible her present would change in ways she couldn't even imagine….that maybe Amy would return. He told her she had the choice, that this was her choice….her team's choice. Yes, he had felt badly, for pushing her, and yet he _knew_ it was what she believed was right, that she truly didn't want to sit back and let people suffer….if she could just allow herself to get past the mission objective of not changing history…. And he knew that was something he could do, that he could help her get past that. So there he went, Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan…..talking a team member into ignoring the mission objectives. Yet more proof that everything in his life was spinning out of control.

Somehow, without even really recognizing it….he and his team had made that choice. The choice for a better future, over the preservation of the past….the choice for freedom from Rittenhouse, and all it represented, both personally and globally….and the choice to commit a murder.

And so they had met him—David Rittenhouse—the source of the danger facing Rufus' family, the source of the unknown danger facing Lucy that she wasn't even really aware of yet, the source of Flynn's rampage through time, the source of the team having to _chase_ Flynn….and the source of all of Wyatt's deception, shame, guilt, and pain. And David Rittenhouse was even creepier….and badder, than Wyatt had been expecting. Kill one evil man…. But, then, because apparently one screw up that day wasn't enough, part two of the mission had _also_ gone south—nearly immediately—because Rittenhouse had seen it coming. Shit.

Then Rittenhouse had killed Arnold too, which shouldn't have bothered Wyatt so much….but it did. Because that wasn't the way history was supposed to go….and that would hurt Lucy. And besides….George Freakin' Washington had given Wyatt one simple order….to bring Arnold back to him, alive, to justice. One simple order, from the father of the nation….from the guy who started it all….and Wyatt couldn't manage to follow it. He couldn't manage to do his duty—not in 1780, and apparently, not in the present either. Because, his other order, the present-day one? It was to eliminate Flynn….and now he was somehow working _with_ him? And going against his orders, turning his back on his duty….on his country….it wasn't something he could ever take lightly. And yet, he _had_ done it. And now it had all been for nothing.

The only reason they had even gotten out of there alive had been because of Rufus. Because of him, they had been able to turn the tables back in their favour….and then Flynn had killed David Rittenhouse. As Wyatt watched the scene, a stray thought entered his mind. _Shit, Ben Cahill was going to be pissed at him_. That was….if Ben Cahill even knew who Wyatt was, once the Time Team returned to the present.

But Wyatt had little time to contemplate that timeline change mind-bend….because suddenly Flynn was putting his true sociopathic nature on display, by announcing that he also had to kill David Rittenhouse's young son, John. And that was not okay. Not okay with Wyatt….certainly not okay with Lucy….and he was pretty sure it wasn't okay with Rufus either, but things started moving too fast for him to ask. So that was that, the end of the Time Team-Flynn alliance. Flynn must have come to the same conclusion, because to add an exclamation mark to the end of the partnership, he had grabbed Lucy, and taken her away with him on the Mothership.

* * *

Wyatt picked at a stray flake of paint on the corner of the window casing. What the hell was wrong with him tonight, forcing himself to relive all of his torments? He looked back out the window, and at the pounding rain that he could now see glinting in the glow of the streetlight. Come to that, what the hell was wrong with him, period?

He glanced back toward his bedroom door. Even in all the chaos of 1780 New York, that moment….when she'd been taken? That was the moment that things had really begun to become clear to him.

When he'd realized what had happened, that Flynn had taken her in the Mothership, he'd been beside himself….he hadn't even been making sense….not to Rufus, and not even to himself. He shook his head slightly. Poor Rufus. Somehow, his friend had convinced him to get back to the Lifeboat, convinced him that he could be a whole lot more effective at attempting a rescue mission from 2017 then he could be pacing and swearing and crying her name, nearly in hysterics in 1780.

Wyatt closed his eyes; the sensations were still all too easy to call to mind. It was pain at losing her, of course…..but it was also something different, something more primal, almost. An aguish, a heartache, in the truest sense. And, sitting in the Lifeboat, while Rufus was doing his thing at the controls, he could remember staring at her empty chair and loose restraint belts….and recognizing again that feeling of self-reproach and despondency….that hopelessness that he had felt before, that he had felt that _other_ time. It was that feeling of _not_ knowing what would happen….yet still knowing that he was responsible, and that it was all because of his weaknesses….

He focused on the sound of the rain, and forced himself to open his eyes. Because the worst hadn't happened, and she had been okay….and now she was _right there_ , in the next room….in his bedroom. Those feelings….they shouldn't be so close to the surface still….he had to get a grip, push things back out of his consciousness, back into their compartments….because he had enough other things to worry about, enough other things to feel guilty for…. Because this, he glanced at the door again, this new turn in their relationship….it was everything he had wanted, but it was still a betrayal….and he was still responsible. And what was he supposed to _do_ with that, now….when he was so close….so close to what he wanted…..so close to finding happiness, so close to finding that hope….

He closed his eyes again, and pressed his forehead against the coolness of the window pane. Because it was everything that he hadn't known he wanted back then….and it was better than he ever could have expected….and so much worse.

* * *

So Flynn had actually done it….he had actually killed David Rittenhouse. But on Wyatt's return to the present, to MI, he hadn't been thinking about what that might mean, or how the timeline and their _present_ might have changed because of Flynn's actions. Thoughts that Flynn might somehow had stopped _them_ , stopped the formation of Rittenhouse had all but disappeared from Wyatt's mind….faded like the mirage they were. Because, with Lucy taken….Wyatt didn't think twice about what had happened to Rittenhouse. He didn't do any research, to see what had changed, to see if Rittenhouse still existed, or to investigate Daelman and Cahill's fates... Hell, he hadn't even checked on Jess' status….because his mind was consumed with a single, solitary thought. He had lost her.

Perhaps Jiya's announcement that Flynn had jumped _back_ to 1780 should have alerted him to the fact that things _hadn't_ changed, that Rittenhouse was still active….but that truly was the furthest thing from his mind. This was his fault. Lucy didn't deserve _any_ of this. He had to fix it. That was the new mission. He'd become frantic and frenetic—yelling at random MI employees, pacing in front of Jiya's station, checking in with Agent Christopher every time she moved from the conference room…. He wasn't even hearing what they were saying to him, just the continued repetitive cycle of his own inner voice…. _How could he have let this happen? How could he have done this again?_

Trying to keep himself busy, he had gotten on the computer, searching Sacramento for empty warehouses….any building large enough to hide the Mothership….even though he didn't really know where to start. There'd been an alert on his email….it was a message from Cahill. Jackass wanted to meet about something. Not happening. Not today. Wyatt deleted the message without another thought—not even the thought that this made Rittenhouse's continued existence a certainty.

And then Flynn had jumped again, and it was going to take _four_ hours before he could go after him, could go after _her_. So, instead of Sacramento, he found himself instead researching 1893 Chicago—because why would he go there? He focused his reading on lifestyles of the rich and famous of the time, on anyone that screamed "Rittenhouse". Even though he knew it probably wouldn't do him any good….but at least it kept his mind busy….off of what could be happening right now to Lucy….and how he had failed her. Thirty minutes later, in a rush of inspiration, Wyatt had bolted for the locker room, and dug his phone out of his jacket pocket in his locker. Because….maybe. Maybe Flynn had left her in the present, not taken her to the past…..and maybe she'd been able to get away from his goons, after all, she got away from David Rittenhouse's goons….and maybe she'd been able to steal a phone….and had tried to contact him. But there was nothing. Just a text message from Cahill….demanding to know why Wyatt hadn't responded to his email. He deleted the text, and blocked the number, for good measure. Asshole. Not this time. He wasn't doing this.

And then later, in 1893 Chicago….at that hotel…. With all the dread, all the fear in that room, the _only_ fear that had registered with Wyatt while he had been trapped had been fear for _her_. Because trapped like this? He couldn't find her. Trapped like this? He couldn't rescue her. Trapped like this—and in all likelihood dying like this? He'd never see her again….and he'd never be able to tell her what he'd been feeling.

And then she had gone and shown him, _again_ —her strength, her intelligence, her courage—because of course she didn't _need_ him to save her. And then she was in his arms. During that embrace—his mind had started making promises to him….promises of possibilities of a future that just might contain some happiness. And then, when she was ripped from him again, so quickly? He wasn't even aware then….wasn't aware of what he was feeling, what he was doing….he'd been on some kind of frenzied auto-pilot. Their eventual reunion had served to start searing those possibilities first formed in his mind, into his heart.

Afterward, back at Mason, his mind had been still humming….with hope and with purpose, as he had begun to make plans about what he would say, what he would do. And when was the last time he had made plans? He had even allowed himself to relive Arkansas again. Cahill's words from later that night suddenly echoed in his brain— _this was supposed to be easy for you….right in your wheelhouse_. It made him want to laugh, thinking about it. Sure, the mission was easy….until feelings became involved. And his wheelhouse? _Nothing_ about Lucy was in his wheelhouse. A whirling storm of intelligence, beauty, femininity, strength, compassion, duty….what the hell was he supposed to have done with that? Other than fall for her….fall like a stone. And after Arkansas, and…. _now_? He knew he'd be wholly unable to push all of the emotion back into a compartment….and he didn't _want_ to. He wanted the feeling to move through his being….to _revel_ in the way it made him feel alive….made him feel a part of something.

Until fate took the opportunity to shake him out of it….to make him remember who he truly was….that _that_ couldn't be his life….that he didn't deserve to be happy, not yet, not until he did his duty….and that he shouldn't think of Lucy as his future. Fate had decided to push him back onto his true path….his necessary path, using the most surprising of conduits.

Because it was then that his cell phone rang. Flynn. His words had been like a punch to the stomach, taking his breath away. Jess…. Because Jess was his purpose, finding justice for Jess was the reason he did what he did….probably the only reason he was still around at all. What had he done? Nearly let another woman take over that purpose….nearly let another woman distract him from Jess? He had to refocus. Here it was—his answer, his absolution. He had lost control, momentarily, in Chicago; let himself hope in the future instead of focusing on what needed to be done, on fixing the past, on finding justice…. Because it had been so long….so long with no leads. And here was Flynn, delivering the key. Wes Gilliam.

That night, Lucy had come over….as he knew she would. And he tried, for her, tried to make it seem like everything was normal….like nothing had changed. Because after the World's Fair? She needed to decompress, and they were still friends….maybe even best friend. And it certainly wasn't Lucy's fault…..it wasn't her fault that he had let himself get….carried away. He'd considered telling her about the phone call, about Wes….but didn't. He hadn't been able to bring himself to tell her….because he knew she would ask him, ask him the same thing that Flynn did, she'd ask what he was going to do about it. And the truth was….he had no idea.

She'd stayed later than normal that night….well past two. He'd asked her to stay over, said that he would take the couch, but she refused. So she'd left….leaving him alone with his thoughts….his thoughts about Jess, about time, about justice, about hope, and about absolution. He'd paced the living room until he'd received her text, telling him she'd arrived back at her house safely. Then he attempted to go to bed. Even though he _knew_ sleep wouldn't come. He hadn't anticipated how hard it would be…. _not_ telling her about Flynn's phone call, not being able to discuss options with her. And lying in the dark, when he should have been thinking of a plan to help Jess, his mind kept circling back to what Lucy would think of it all.

* * *

The morning after his sleepless night was tough, but nothing he hadn't gotten through before. He'd put in an appearance at Mason, to spend some time training with Rufus, and then returned to his place, his mind buzzing. He'd decided he needed to take some time, alone, and away from things, to think more on the Gilliam question.

It hurt his head, the more he thought about it, thought about what he needed to do, what he _had_ to do. He had a name….he had _the_ name—and it was the answer to everything, everything he had been looking for for five years. And yet, it raised questions he hadn't know existed before…..questions about his own inner self, about how far he was willing to go….what he would do. And what bothered him even more was that he now understood that this was _why_ Flynn had done it in the first place—given him the name. To fuck with his head, to get him off his game, take his mind off the mission, to make him slip up on the job….to make it easier for Flynn to succeed in his own horrible mission of personal obsession. Seemed somehow fitting that Flynn would protect his personal obsession by using Wyatt's own against him. Flynn's tone on the phone had been telling...almost too excited to share the news. He had known that this would eat at Wyatt

Wyatt's thoughts returned to the problem at hand. Because Wes Gilliam was a bad man, pure and simple. He killed Jess…and two other women. And Wyatt had it within his means to stop all of it. If he just could have put a bullet in him, it would have been easy….but of course he couldn't. Wes was a couple years younger than Wyatt was himself….which meant he couldn't go back and take care of it….because time travel was a bitch.

* * *

Leaving his apartment, he'd swung his pack onto the passenger side seat of his truck, closed the door, and walked around to the driver's side. The sky was a brilliant blue, and after making his appearance at Mason Industries, he now had a whole afternoon without anything pressing. Wyatt glanced at his cell phone, that was presuming Flynn didn't decide to jump, of course. He needed to think, needed to plan. There had to be a way, a way to save her, to save Jess. Surely the universe owed him that? But how the hell was he going to do this? But, one problem at a time, and saving Jess was actually not his first problem….his first problem was getting out of his own head, to leave room for actual thinking, instead of spinning….to leave room for inspiration. So his plan for the afternoon was simple, drive up into the hills, and walk….just…..get out of the city, away from the people, away from Mason Industries and closed timelike curves, away from Flynn and Rittenhouse, and away from _her_ , a voice in the back of his head whispered. But, of course, the universe had other plans for him….because there, coming toward him up the sidewalk, was Benjamin Cahill.

"Wyatt," he greeted him, "You're a hard man to reach these days."

"Do you ever think that maybe that's intentional, Ben?"

His face shifted, to something Wyatt recognized as slightly dangerous. "Oh, I'm quite sure it is."

The older man's gaze swept the surrounding parking lot. Accepting that it was empty, he turned his attention back to Wyatt. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Wyatt sighed, closing the truck door again. "What are you talking about?"

"We don't accept our assets going….rogue, Wyatt."

"Rogue?"

"You are to follow your orders….at all times."

Wyatt squared his gaze at Cahill, a challenge in his voice, "How have I not been following your group's orders?"

Cahill shook his head, "Do you have any idea…..my group has a replacement asset named, Wyatt….do you know what that means?"

Wyatt nearly laughed at that. "Pretty sure I do Cahill, it's the same threat your group…. _Rittenhouse_ ….has been using with me for well over eight years." His own statement gave him pause. _It had been almost nine years….hell, practically a decade….was that even possible?_ He shook his head slightly, and continued. "And yet, here I am, still doing what you tell me to….protect the team, try to eliminate Flynn—

"Flynn is still active."

"You told me the order of those two priorities was to my own discretion….in fact, I thought you _appreciated_ that about me, that I would protect the team…."

"What the hell did you do on that last mission, Wyatt?"

"I'm sure you've read the report."

Cahill shook his head at him, his neck and face turning red. He was angrier than Wyatt had ever seen him….and yet there was something else….something that looked like fear. And if he was afraid….well that gave Wyatt the advantage.

"You're forgetting something, Ben….once I'm back in the past….I can do whatever the hell I want. _I_ make the decisions….I do what needs to be done, and you don't get a say in it. What are you going to do? Follow me?"

Cahill took a step toward him….but at that moment, a woman and two children crossed in front of them from the street. The interruption seemed to bring Cahill back to himself, and he stepped back again. As he straightened his jacket, Wyatt could see the redness fade from his face. He no longer looked afraid or angry….but the eerie calm that next spread across his features told Wyatt that he was still dealing with a dangerous man….someone very much on edge.

As if noticing it for the first time, Cahill's gaze took in the truck, and Wyatt's position at the drivers' side door. "Going somewhere?"

"Seems unlikely, now."

"Well….let's just say it's a short delay? I apologise, for my earlier tone….but we still have things to discuss."

"I'm not inviting you in."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He motioned up the street with his head. "You ever been to the Rose Diner?"

"No….can't say that I have."

"Generally speaking, the food is nothing special, but they have the best lemon pie." And, with that, he started walking up the street.

A clandestine meeting, eating pie at a diner? thought Wyatt. This was some kind of joke, right? Nobody could be that cliché? _Crazy-assed smarmy civilian who watches too many movies_ , Wyatt amended his profile of Cahill, yet again. Cahill paused at the road, turning back to look at Wyatt over his shoulder. Wyatt closed his eyes for a moment, trying to evaluate his options….but there really weren't any, were there? So he locked the truck, and followed Cahill down the street.

The diner was run-down….and basically empty. Still, it seemed a great departure from their regular meeting spots.

"Aren't you worried about someone overhearing our conversation?" Wyatt asked.

"Why—are you? _I_ have nothing to hide."

"You really believe that, don't you," he scoffed.

A tired waitress approached the table, and Cahill ordered a piece of pie. He looked to Wyatt who waved him off.

"Nothing for me, thanks."

Cahill gazed out the window, at the traffic passing on the busy street. Wyatt was struck again by how much his demeanour had changed, since the anger and fear he had seen, outside his building. Cahill then swung back around to face Wyatt.

"I've been thinking a lot lately about family, Wyatt."

 _What?_ He had no idea how to respond to that. "Good for you?"

"Do you think we underestimate the role our family plays in the way we see the world?"

 _Where is he going with this?_ Wyatt shrugged to him, in response.

"I've been thinking a lot lately…. I have a family member, who doesn't know about my…..associates yet, the work that we do. I'm thinking that it's time I told this family member." He looked at Wyatt. "What do you think? Is honesty the best policy?"

The two men stared at each other.

Cahill chuckled…. "I suppose you aren't exactly the right person for me to ask _that_ question. You know, there is another person, someone else in my group….in my family—or my family member's family, you could say….who doesn't want me to tell this family member yet….says the timing isn't right….but I think I've waited long enough….I think it's time I took matters into my own hands."

Wyatt shook his head. "Do whatever floats your boat, tell them, don't tell them…." He trailed off….he was getting annoyed with this whole thing; he was not this man's _friend_. Wyatt was about to say as much, when he realized, that he could perhaps turn Ben's new-found talkative nature to his advantage, to learn more about Rittenhouse.

"All right, so you're going to tell your family member all about Ritt…."

Cahill shot him a warning glance.

"….All about your group." He finished. "So, why don't you practice on me Ben, tell me all about your group….all about why they're so awesome. After all, I was at a meeting once…."

Cahill shook his head. "Just once….I somehow doubt you'll be invited to another."

"Ah….and I was so looking forward to it."

"Pretty sure that ship has sailed, Wyatt….somewhere between scuttling those missions and, you know, getting Daelman killed."

"Hey—that was not my fault, and you know it. But seriously, tell me. Tell me what the….point of all this is. What does your group want?"

Cahill appraised him for a moment. "You know enough about that….we are making a better world…."

"For you...and people who think like you."

"For everyone—you have to look at it from what is best for people….how to do things the right way. We're the good guys here, Wyatt."

He laughed at that. "The good guys? Doing things the right way? I know some people who might disagree with that…."

"Who? Flynn? Your friend Rufus?"

Wyatt paled at the casual mention of Rufus' name.

"Right, wrong, good, bad—you know well enough that these are relative terms, Wyatt. There are always degrees, rankings. Our approach with Rufus may not have been the kindest approach….but it was necessary to our end of monitoring the missions independent of your….reported version of events. And that was necessary to stop Flynn. And surely you recognize that someone bent on destroying history like Flynn want to….well, that's not good or right….so whatever has to be done, to stop him….to stop a bad man, is therefore good, right."

Wyatt clasped his hands on the table, in front of him. "And what about your approach with me, Ben….and with my wife?"

Cahill raised his hand, to pause the conversation, while the waitress brought his order. Once she was back in the kitchen, out of earshot, he continued. "We both know we're long past that discussion, Wyatt. You made your choices; you are here because of those choices….and that's not on me."

He pinned him with a stare, "What does the name Wes Gilliam mean to you, Ben?"

"Wes Gilliam?" he stroked his chin, as though deep in thought. "Nothing at all….should it?"

Wyatt leaned back in his chair, shaking his head at him. "What if I told you I could stop him?"

"Wyatt….I have no idea what you're talking about….but, given your penchant for crusading, I'm going to assume that you think this man has done something wrong….that he's _bad_ ….so I guess I would say to you, as I have said to you before , knock yourself out. Just remember that your job, your _duty_ , that comes first, before any _personal_ missions."

"My…. _duty_ …."

Cahill chuckled. "Despite that last time jump, Wyatt, we both _know_ you're going to continue doing your job, your duty. You're going to stop Flynn, and assist my group in setting things right."

"Setting things _right_? You forget Cahill, that I met David Rittenhouse. I know a little bit about what he saw as _right_."

Cahill smiled at him, a forkful of pie hovering near his mouth. "Right….well, that brings us full circle, back to the whole reason I've been trying to contact you, doesn't it Wyatt? It seems we may have some….trust issues, between you and the members of my group. Tell me what happened that night, Wyatt, when Flynn went back to 1780, and visited David Rittenhouse."

 _Shit, this wasn't going to be fun_. He shrugged, noncommittally, "Flynn shot and killed David Rittenhouse."

"Hmm, you know Wyatt, we take great pride in our oral traditions, with my group."

"Suppose you have to, given that you never write anything down?"

He chuckled again at that, and continued. "And the stories are quite clear. David Rittenhouse was shot by a tall stranger, with an unusual accent."

"Right—Flynn."

"Yes, that would sound about right, but the accounts also say that the man was accompanied by two others, and that the three of them came _together_ , brought by Benedict Arnold….just to meet him."

"So," Wyatt shrugged, "Maybe Flynn brought goons with him."

Cahill smiled.

 _Crap_ ….Wyatt knew where this was going.

"Possibly, I suppose, but, you see, the interesting thing is that the stories are quite clear that one of Arnold's other two guests was a woman, with dark hair and eyes….and that there was also a slave, connected with the group, who helped them escape. So….Flynn plus three others, a man, a dark-haired woman, and someone identified at the time as a slave. Seems rather, coincidental….don't you think, Wyatt?"

He was done with the charade….especially since it wasn't working. "So what? My team's job is to follow Flynn….so we were in the same place at the same time….just means we were doing our job, right….we had limited options, and that was our best one."

"The best option? Explain to me how what happened next was anything other than a disaster?"

Wyatt pushed his chair back a tiny bit, scanning the room for exits. "Things only went to hell when David Rittenhouse killed Benedict Arnold with a modern gun….and then we had to manage the situation."

"You are our asset," Cahill hissed, making sure no one was listening, and you helped Flynn kill David Rittenhouse!"

Wyatt huffed in anger with the situation, and pushed himself back into his chair. Then he saw that interesting combination of anger and fear flash in Cahill's eyes again.

"They want to replace you for this, Wyatt. Do you think anyone else will protect….your team the way you do?"

Wyatt paled.

"Look, I shouldn't even be telling you this, but they're bringing in Sergeant Major Caleb Sullivan very soon. Do you know him?"

Wyatt shook his head; it wasn't a name he'd heard before.

"He is a solid asset. In fact, I have no doubt he'll put an end to Flynn….but I also think it's highly probable that he'll get everyone else with him killed _and_ torch history, in the process—and you know I don't want that."

Wyatt hated the fact that he allowed the pain caused by Cahill's words to flash ever so briefly across his features.

Cahill noticed. "Don't blame me for this–this is on you. What were you _thinking_ , teaming with Flynn, conspiring to murder David Rittenhouse; you're _our_ asset, Wyatt, start acting like it." He calmed himself, and took another bite of his pie before continuing. "You know, a very large portion of the group didn't even want me to come see you today—they were going to send someone else….someone who wouldn't have taken you out for pie, but who would have killed you Wyatt"

"What do you want? You want me to say thank you? Why don't you tell me what this is really about….why you _care_ so much, Ben? Why don't you want everyone on the team with Sullivan killed? What is it about these missions….what is it about the team….what is it about _Lucy_?"

Cahill placed his fork back on his plate, glowering at Wyatt. "Perhaps I should have just let them….should have just let them send the fixer…."

Wyatt held up his hand. "Just….stop, Ben. And you know what? You tell them….you tell _Rittenhouse_ ," he noted Cahill flinch, "that they should be _thanking_ us….they should be thanking us for what went down in that last mission. Because, after Flynn killed David Rittenhouse? Well he wanted to kill John Rittenhouse, his son, too. To snuff out the line, stop your little group from forming….and we stopped him from doing that, Lucy stopped him from doing that."

"Lucy, Lucy did that?" His tone was softer, now, and Wyatt saw a new expression, something indistinguishable, pass across his face.

Jesus, there was something creepy about his obsession with Lucy, but he couldn't very well question him about it further, not since the mere mention of her name had gone so poorly before.

"Yeah, so you can thank us, thank Lucy, for saving your little group, by protecting John Rittenhouse."

Cahill laughed at that; "You really don't know what you're talking about, do you Wyatt? John Rittenhouse was never _in_ his father's organization. In fact, he fought against the organization, his whole life. No, the group had already formed, was already in existence, by the time its founder was _murdered_ ," he emphasized the word.

Wyatt's eyebrows rose slightly, at that. "So John Rittenhouse fought against his father's ideals?"

"Oh yes, he did everything he could—spied on meetings, kept files on their activities….he made it his life's mission to disavow everything his father stood for."

That made Wyatt smile; in that moment, he desperately wanted to tell Lucy….to tell her that John _had_ made his own choices. Except of course, that he _couldn't_ ….because where the hell would he tell her he got his information from? Talking about Rittenhouse history seemed to have distracted Cahill from the whole Wyatt helping Flynn thing for the time being….so he decided it was probably best if he could just keep him talking on the subject.

"Lucy said she tried to learn more about John, but that she couldn't find any information on him…."

"Well of course, he changed his name, to hide from lunatics like Flynn, one would suppose….or maybe just because he didn't want to be connected with his father. The story goes that he borrowed the name of an Irish gardener he knew. Whatever his reasons, I'm sure it was the right move for him at the time….he was a clever man"

Wyatt raised his eyebrows at that, "High praise, for someone who spent his life trying to destroy what you now stand for"

Cahill was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. "Wyatt, what do you remember about the lessons your father taught you, when you were young?"

Wyatt laughed at that, "I don't know, Ben….probably something about the proper order for mixing beer and liquor to avoid puking?"

Cahill smiled, thinly.

"It's an interesting thing, what we pass on to our children….we raise our children to be like us, to be even better versions of us, I suppose….and more often than not, we are successful….just not always in the way we imagine."

 _Where the hell did that come from?_ Cahill was staring at him, as though waiting for a response.

Wyatt sighed, "Okay, I'll bite….what the hell are you talking about?"

Cahill smiled, "David Rittenhouse raised John to be an independent thinker, to use his mind, and put it to work improving the world….which is what John decided to do, but he did it by working _against_ everything that his father held dear, everything that his father believed in"

"Well….I don't know about the raising him to be an independent thinker bit…."

Cahill looked at him knowingly, "Unless of course, you're still going to go with the 'we were never there thing'?"

Wyatt rolled his eyes, and waved the comment away. He didn't need to rehash that conversation…. "So, fathers and sons, you were saying?"

Cahill blew out his breath…. "So John followed David Rittenhouse's example, by working _against_ his father….and he passed that lesson along to his own son….Benjamin."

Wyatt smirked, " _Benjamin_."

Cahill nodded. "Quite right. So John passed the lesson on to Benjamin, and Benjamin learned his lesson so well, that he fought against John and _his_ beliefs. Benjamin returned to his Grandfather's organization. It had only been in existence for two generations, you understand, it was still fledgling, it was vulnerable to dissidence, to external influences…..and of course to everything John had attempted to do, to tear it down. By the time Benjamin came along….there wasn't much left to it, I'm afraid. But Benjamin changed all of that, he reinvested in the group, both with like-minded people and with his own fortune, he structured the group that we have today—invented the notion of the founding families, began the rules of secrecy, control from the shadows….

Cahill took another bite of pie, and then continued, thoughtfully. And Benjamin learned from the battles between his father and grandfather, too. He built the importance of legacy, of blood, into the fabric of Rittenhouse….so that the future generations would continue to build the group, not to tear it apart. In many ways, Benjamin is the modern father of our organization."

Wyatt shook his head. "That's quite the history lesson there, Ben. So….I guess you should tell your folks that they have Lucy Preston to thank for all that….to thank for saving John, who sounds like a decent human being….and for Ben, his _idiot_ son….your group's modern father and all…."

"Oh, I'll make sure that everyone is aware….don't you worry about that. You know, they're all already quite proud of her, quite proud of her work on the team…."

That surprised Wyatt, and he cut Cahill off, "I don't think Lucy wants them to be proud of her."

"Well, do you think that really matters? What Lucy wants? What matters is that John survived….to father Ben….so that he could found the modern version of our association." Cahill drew his fork across the pie crust crumbs on his plate, seeming thoughtful. Then he looked again at Wyatt. "Presumably that must have happened in other timelines too….but in this timeline," he smiled, "The only timeline _I_ know...the only one my associates know….well, that's all because of Lucy.

Wyatt suddenly felt ill—this wasn't going the way he had wanted it to…. He wanted to _protect_ Lucy, so that Cahill—Rittenhouse, wouldn't go after her, wouldn't hurt her. But instead he'd just made her some kind of historic folk hero to them….and that _really_ wasn't going to help him in his efforts to protect her from whatever Rittenhouse's plans were for her. Had he created some horrible self-fulfilling prophecy by mentioning any of this? But no….that wasn't right….because in the original timeline, Rittenhouse was still after her. And in Lucy's _diary_ , it hadn't said anything about David Rittenhouse, so they had definitely created a new reality, when Flynn killed him….but somehow Cahill was _still_ obsessed and Rittenhouse was still after her…. It all made Wyatt's head hurt, just thinking about it. And he didn't have _time_ for any of this; he had other things to plan for….he had to get his focus back on what was important….how to save Jessica, what to do about Wes Gilliam.

He shook his head, and noisily pushed his chair all the way back from the table.

"Well, it's been a slice, Ben—pie's my treat." Wyatt stood from the chair, fishing a few bills from his wallet, and throwing them on the table. "If you're not going to blow my brains out, for being in the room when Flynn killed David Rittenhouse….then I really should be going."

Cahill watched him, warily, "As long as you're still my group's asset on this….the mission orders….they remain the same."

Wyatt snorted softly…. "Yeah, I figured as much. Well ben, thanks for the history lesson," he moved to walk away, then changed his mind, and turned back. "Seriously though, is that what you and your friends do at all those meetings? Recite oral history until everyone falls asleep? I must have missed that, at the meeting I attended."

Cahill gave an easy laugh…. "Our oral tradition is important to us, but most aren't as fascinated by that story as I am. Actually, I learned most of it from my father."

"Really, why is that?"

He smiled, up at him, placing his fork across his now-empty plate. "What do you think John changed his surname name to, Wyatt?"

Time seemed to expand and contract—a sensation that Wyatt was actually familiar with—in the silence that followed his question.

 _Fuck. Lucy had saved this dick's great-great-great-great….well….Lucy had saved this Cahill dick's ancestor._


	14. Chapter 14

_From Chapter 13:_

 _"Yeah, I figured as much. Well ben, thanks for the history lesson," he moved to walk away, then changed his mind, and turned back. "Seriously though, is that what you and your friends do at all those meetings? Recite oral history until everyone falls asleep? I must have missed that, at the meeting I attended."_

 _Cahill gave an easy laugh…. "Our oral tradition is important to us, but most_ _aren't_ _as fascinated by that story as I am. Actually, I learned most of it from my father."_

 _"_ _Really, why is that?"_

 _He smiled, up at him, placing his fork across his now-empty plate. "What do you think John changed his surname name to, Wyatt?"_

 _Time seemed to expand and contract—a sensation that Wyatt was actually familiar with—in the silence that followed his question._

 _Fuck. Lucy had saved this dick's great-great-great-great….well….Lucy had saved this Cahill dick's ancestor._

* * *

This wasn't going to work.

They were in the middle of 1882 Missouri, with a clear mission—a relatively simple mission—and yet it was all wrong. Lucy was….well she was _off_. And truth be told, that scared the crap out of Wyatt. And _that_ realization? The realization that seeing Lucy like that made him feel _so_ much? That scared the _hell_ out of him. So he pushed it all down, and hid it with a mask of pretend annoyance. The only good news was that they were close—close to Flynn, close to Jesse James, close to the mission objectives. But Wyatt couldn't even let himself be glad for that, because, sitting around that fire, Rufus had started lecturing him on morality—which Wyatt really didn't need. Because of course Rufus was right….but that didn't change the fact that Lucy was _off_ and that he was….well he didn't know what he was, anymore. And then suddenly, Wyatt found that he was no longer _faking_ his annoyance….

Eventually though, the cause of Lucy's distress became clear. Forgotten her sister's birthday. Which to him didn't seem like _that_ big a deal, given that she was charged with saving the world and all….but he could see it was everything to her. He could see it in her face, in her posture….and then her words, about not wanting to do this job anymore…. And he suddenly realized that, to her, this was a betrayal—that she felt she had betrayed her sister's memory, that she had betrayed the person that she was fighting for…. And Wyatt could sympathize about how shitty that felt….since just recently he'd felt that he had done the same thing.

An hour later, as the fire dwindled, Wyatt was still awake. He scanned the faces of his teammates. Lucy had finally drifted off to sleep for real, after what he was pretty sure had been pretend-sleeping for quite a while….just to avoid any further conversation, he guessed. And Rufus was also snoring lightly on his other side, still wrapped tightly in a blanket. But, there was no way that he could say either one of them was relaxed.

They shouldn't be here.

And not because they were time travellers from 2017 mucking up the timeline with every move they made….but because they desperately needed a break. His team _shouldn't_ be in the field. Lucy and Rufus were stressed to their limits, that much was clear. So how could they be effective on a mission?

And they weren't the only ones. As he adjusted the saddle roll he leaned against for the umpteenth time, trying to get comfortable, he recognized that he was stressed to his limit, as well. It had been hard….so hard….visiting Gilliam in that prison. And even when Gilliam had all but admitted to it, even with that—the answer he'd been searching for, for so long—Wyatt was still a mess inside. Almost as though he couldn't accept that it was real. Couldn't accept that it was real, and that he could _change_ it. And now, thinking about Jess, and Gilliam….and time travel….and redemption….

He had to give it to Flynn, that dick sure knew what he was doing, dropping Gilliam's name….making Wyatt distracted from the current chase, the mission. _Focus on what's at hand_ , Wyatt, he heard his Grandpa's voice, chiding him gently. He closed his eyes, Flynn _and Jesse James…._

But then, as had been common as of late, his mind suddenly flipped ahead by over a century. _Jesse James and….Gilliam_. Shit. It had taken every ounce of his self-control not to attack the man in the visiting area when he'd been in the prison. But could he actually _do_ it, actually make someone disappear from existence? And yes, he smiled grimly to himself, that was a double-barrelled question. There was the first part of that question—the _Is that actually possible_ part of it. But the disappearance of Lucy's sister seemed to support that. So okay, it was actually possible to change the past and eliminate a person form existence in the future. But then, there was the trickier bit of it….the _Am I, personally, okay with being responsible for that?_ aspect of the question. And Wyatt hated himself, because it shouldn't even have been a question in his mind….it should have been the easiest decision in the world—eliminate an evil man from existence, to save his wife. But it just…. wasn't.

It wasn't easy for him….and he didn't know why. There was of course the question of the information's source….the worry that maybe Flynn was lying to him. Wyatt knew that it wasn't beyond possibility that Flynn could have bribed Gilliam somehow—given him Wyatt's name, and the details of Jess' death—but for what purpose, Wyatt couldn't imagine. But, even if Flynn _was_ lying, what did it matter? Gilliam had still murdered those two women. And before that? A brief overview of the case had revealed he'd been responsible for multiple assaults before he'd turned to murder….he had ruined dozens of lives. It would be a _good_ thing, if he never existed….even if it didn't save Jess. So that couldn't be the only reason why he was hesitant.

And to actually _do_ it…. Turned out that the act of actually disappearing the man wasn't even going to be as difficult as it might have been. Flynn had tried to play his head games, reminding Wyatt it wouldn't be as simple as just killing one bad man—since Wes Gilliam was slightly younger than Wyatt himself—that he'd have to do something awful to Wes' innocent parents. But just a small amount of research on Wyatt's part had made it clear that the answer was even easier. Because no, he couldn't go and kill Wes….but he wouldn't have to kill his parents, either. Just make sure they never got together that _one night_. That was it.

He readjusted himself again, folding the saddle pad over, and sliding his arm between the layers. They neglected to mention the discomfort of the sleeping arrangements in the movies. Not that he could complain, because he was _here_ , he was honest to God in the old West….part of a posse….chasing Jesse James. It sounded insane to even think it, but here he was. He sighed, leaning his head back to gaze at the stars. Definitely one of the benefits to this gig…. starry skies like he'd never seen, even when he'd been camping with his Grandpa as a kid, back in the Texan backcountry. As his gaze scanned the sky, mentally trying to identify some of the constellations he'd learned back then….it hit him. _This_ was why. This was why he was hesitant, when it came to what had to be done with Gilliam. Because it all seemed too….big. The elimination of someone from existence….that was something far bigger than him. Something that shouldn't be conceivable, let alone do-able by a military grunt like him, by someone from a background like his. Purposefully eliminating someone from existence, that was….well that was _cosmic_ in nature, wasn't it? Way too big a thing, for him to contemplate….for him to _play_ with, so casually.

Wyatt had tried to push all thoughts of Gilliam away, pack them into their own compartments until the team returned to the present, so that he could focus instead on the mission….but it wasn't working. Wasn't working, because the very nature of the current mission seemed so symmetrical with his own inner turmoil, that it amplified his disquiet, and meant that he let himself get even more tightly bound up in it all.

Current mission: How to stop a bad man—when the ends justified the means and when they didn`t.

Wyatt lifted his hat off the crown of his head and onto his face, covering his eyes like they always did in the movies….even though it was pitch black out….so it wasn't like he needed the hat to block the light. But, for some reason, the dark cocoon, the slight odour of horse and felt and sweat….it helped him think. So under that hat, he closed his eyes, and tried to clear his mind. Yes, he'd let himself get bound up in it all—what was right, what was wrong, what was good, what was bad….and that wasn't helping, wasn't helping anything. In fact, it was making things more difficult than they needed to be. Wyatt felt the familiar embers of anxiety within him start to lick into flame. He forced himself again to focus in on the mission….on the now, to help to smoother the flame back to ember. Trust the mission, he told himself. Because, truth be told, Wyatt _knew_ what was bad right now-that was easy. Jesse James was bad. He was going to kill again; there was no question in Wyatt's mind. And by killing people he wasn't supposed to, Jesse would also change history….which Wyatt was sworn to protect….making Jesse doubly-bad. It should have been simple.

Except of course for the fact that the Universe had seen fit for him to meet Bass Reeves...because apparently someone, somewhere thought his life wasn't complicated enough, and that he needed to be reminded of his childhood, of his Grandfather….of good guys who wore white hats….or at least rode white horses, and who always did the right thing. Because, of course Bass was right. The _right_ thing was to arrest Jesse, not to kill him. And yet….wasn't killing him still necessary….to make sure Jesse didn't hurt anyone else, to preserve the timeline as much as possible? And how could something that was necessary _not_ be right? There had to be a loophole, right? Some way to make this come out right in the end….to do good….while still ensuring that Jesse wouldn't kill again, that he wouldn't change history? _Snap out of it, Logan_. Trust the mission.

He exhaled, and then inhaled….focusing his energy on that thought, letting his senses fill with that _hat_ —the damp felt, the horse….the West. Thank god, for the simple things. No time-like curves, no Delta Force, no Rittenhouse, no _lies_. Mission: Stop Jesse James, as efficiently and effectively, as possible. Luckily, a bullet was both efficient and effective. And there was nothing cosmic about it. Wyatt finally drifted off to sleep, one idea echoing through his brain….Now here was a mission he could trust.

It was that thought that continued to get him through the next morning, and then through the next whole day. Just put one foot in front of the other, and trust the mission. Of course all while keeping tabs on Rufus and Lucy. He noted grimly that Lucy was not looking any better, even with a night of sleep. But he knew better than to even suggest that she pull back on this one, take a break in the Lifeboat while he and Rufus went to work….so he couldn't worry about that right now. And just thinking about her was making him lose his focus, which he also couldn't do, not now. Trust the mission….the thought continued to drive him forward. Even when they found the cabin that night. The cabin that was all 1898 going on 2008...and what the hell was that about? _But don't think about that, either_ ….trust the mission.

Kill one bad man….one bad man who wasn't even supposed to exist anymore, if not for Flynn's interference. Really shouldn't have been that difficult. And yet, it was, it was still eating at him. Despite some of Wyatt's outward bravado regarding James and Flynn catching bullets, and saying it didn't bother him….he'd really killed _very_ few men outside of self-defence situations, and when he had….it was usually in war zones….where he'd been taught to shoot first, if he wanted to survive. But it really wasn't his nature, and Bass Reeves Had been right, when he said that he knew it sat with him badly, and the memory of those occurrences were some of the many things that kept him awake nights. He was jealous that things could be so simple for Bass—that, for Bass, there was a right and a wrong, a good and a bad. And somehow, Bass seemed able to _choose_ the right way, the good way….every time. And if Bass could do that, then why couldn't he? A thought stirred in the back of his mind….this must be his punishment—his punishment for lying to his team, for not telling Lucy _everything_ , because, surely he deserved it. Because it wasn't just that doing the right thing _wasn't easy_ ….but that it was also paradoxically _wrong_ ….because Jesse James wasn't supposed to exist….and what the hell was his conscience supposed to do with that?

Jesse James wasn't supposed to exist….and yet now he was shooting at his team, at _Rufus and Lucy_ , with a gun that Wyatt was pretty certain was also not supposed to exist….at least, not in this time. It was that realization, that Jesse was shooting at the team, which finally spurred him into action.

 _Protect the team_. Because that was the only mission that really mattered. Luckily, James seemed so focused on announcing his presence to the group in the cabin, so focused on playing head games with Bass, and probably so drunk on the power of his future-rifle, that he didn't even hear Wyatt, as he crept up behind him. Easy….it would be easy….to make sure he ate bullets, to correct history, and put him in the ground.

Wyatt even allowed himself a moment of child-like joy….he had got the drop on _the_ Jesse James! Chew on _that_ he thought, his mind racing with the image of every bully, every asshole, that he had faced as a child, as a youth….even as an adult. Their images swam in a blur before him, until they coalesced into an image of his father, which he wasn't going to think about right now, so he shoved it back In the compartment where it came from.

But even as he stood there, gun raised, tracking to the centre of Jesse's back, he knew he couldn't do it. He knew that this wasn't _right_ , shooting a man in the back. But he had to shoot him, didn't he? There was no other way this was going to work. There'd been enough conflict circling in him, enough desire to return to a world of black and white….that a new image swam to the fore-front of his mind—an image of him shooting Jesse James in self-defence—and he'd formed another plan **.** Because if he had learned one thing, from watching all those Westerns, it was that Jesse James was an arrogant asshole. All he had to do was provoke him, preferably by weakening the speed of his draw….and then James would turn on Wyatt….and then, Wyatt _could_ shoot him….in self-defence. The plan had formed so quickly, in his subconscious, that Wyatt hadn't even fully been aware of thinking it, until he was actually acting on it. He'd re-aligned his aim, and fired—shooting James in the shoulder, antagonizing him with his words….

But it had all gone to hell, because James _hadn't_ taken the bait….he hadn't spun on Wyatt and drawn to fire his own gun in return.

Wyatt's mind was spinning, now. _What the hell was James doing?_ He was surrendering, dropping his weapon, turning himself in….and now things were even worse. Because now, now he was going to have to kill an injured, unarmed man who was in the act of surrendering. And Bass was there, to remind him of that fact. Even though James had just killed Bass' best friend, Reeves still wanted to take Jesse James in, to let him face justice. And there he was, with one gun on James and another on Wyatt, to make sure that that was what would happen.

"Holster it."

"No, I can't do that," he could feel his hands shaking with his internal tension.

"Yes, you can."

Wyatt was confident that Bass wouldn't shoot him….at least, not to kill him, so that was the least of his concerns. His mind raced….so what now? _Trust the mission_. Jesse James was wounded, unarmed, and surrendering….and what the hell was Wyatt going to do? Because of all things Wyatt knew to be true, the fact that Jesse James would escape, and kill again, was right up there….he was a bad man who was going to kill good people….and then _that_ would change history, even more than it had already changed.

He took a breath, controlling the shaking in his hand, "We gotta be sure."

"You've got a choice, son."

A choice! Wyatt knew that he couldn't let it happen, that he had to fix this….and fuck Bass and every Western he'd ever watched! He had a job to do, and that job _had_ to supersede right vs wrong, didn't it? So why hadn't he done it yet? Why hadn't he fired? Jesse James, a bad man, was right there, unarmed, staring at him. All Wyatt had to do was pull the damn trigger…. Why couldn't he do it?

And then he was shocked out of his internal battle when the night was cut by the clap of a single bullet blast, echoing across the snowy landscape. Wyatt watched as Jesse James fell forward, into the snow. He could hear his heart thudding in his ears as he tried to process it all.

Lucy.

Lucy had fixed the mess that Wyatt couldn't.

And that was _not_ okay. _He_ was the soldier, it was _his_ mission to protect his team, protect history, get Garcia Flynn, and he had failed repeatedly….on all those counts.

Kill one bad man….that was all he had to do, to protect Lucy from having to live this particular horror….and he hadn't been able to do it. He hadn't been able to protect her, because he was weak….because he was childish….foolish. He'd allowed himself that ridiculous hope that somehow the world could be a sensible place of right, and wrong….and that maybe the world was also a place where he could be one of the good guys.

He moved through the rest of the mission, in a fog; but...how had she done it? Why? Because that _wasn't_ her….Lucy wasn't like that….she had an innate sense of right and wrong….she never crossed the line….so why had she now? Was it to restore history? His stomach rolled with dread—or some misguided attempt to save _him_ from himself? Why?

But the dark truth was….he _knew_ why. He knew the only reason that really mattered. She had done it because he had forced her hand. It was _his_ job, it was why he was here—to do what needed to be done, regardless of rightness or goodness—and he had failed. But worse yet, it was also his job to protect her….so he had failed her, too. He had forced her to finish the job _for_ him. He had forced her to do what he hadn't been able to do, because he had wavered in his commitment to the mission.

Wyatt knew from personal experience that, even if she was numb to it now, sooner or later, Lucy was going to relive the whole thing….likely repeatedly. Not only that, but like Bass had said, she was also going to have to live _with_ it. It would add to her nightmares, add to her pain….and she shouldn't have to bear that burden….

That was on him.

God! Wasn't it bad enough that he was lying to her? Now he had gone and failed her in another, possibly even more horrible way. His head swam, and he felt sick to his stomach in a way that even the Lifeboat couldn't match.

He had failed Lucy.

He made a vow to himself. He wasn't going to fail her….or anyone else, like that, again. He wasn't going to let that happen, he _couldn't_ let that happen again.

He wasn't going to fail someone he cared about, just because he wasn't able to get the job done. He had the name of Jessica's killer….and he had access to a time machine. That meant that he could save her...end of story. It didn't matter that he was changing history, that he would have to….eliminate someone. All that mattered was doing his job, and saving her.

He had made such a mess of things….but there was still an opportunity for him to save Jess. He had failed Lucy….he would not allow himself to fail Jess.

And this time, there were no bullets required—it was even easier. Wes had been the product of two parents who had a one night stand, and never saw each other again. So….the mission was to stop the one night stand. Making the most difficult part of the whole thing stealing the time machine. Except Wyatt knew even that wouldn't be so difficult, he knew Rufus would agree, he _knew_ he could count on Rufus to help him.

* * *

Rufus was on board. The plan was in motion. So, that had brought him to the door of a tidy house, in a spiffy neighbourhood. And before he raised his hand to knock, he knew. Knew that he'd been wrong. Standing there at the threshold, he knew that _this_ would be the most difficult part of the whole thing. Telling her.

Because even if he ignored _that possible part_ of their relationship, their importance to each other….that part that mocked him from the quiet recesses of is brain, that part that might explain whatever the hell it was that had happened between them in Arkansas….even if he just kept ignoring _that_ part of their relationship….she was still his best friend. And when the hell had that happened? Where that hell had that even come from? And yet…..he knew. He knew that was the truth. He gasped for breath as the realisation sank in, then revelled in the feeling of _having_ someone again….having someone to confide in….to trust….maybe even to….

Except that he was going to get in a time machine. He was going to get into the Lifeboat; with the sole purpose of changing history….and he would be purposefully leaving her behind.

And there was no way she was going to be okay with that.

And he wasn't okay with it either—not really—he just didn't see another choice.

Because he couldn't risk her—couldn't risk her losing her shot at getting her sister, couldn't risk her getting charged with….charged with what? Grand theft time machine? Treason? Whatever it was, it wouldn't be good….and he wouldn't let that happen to her. He could convince them Rufus was his hostage, but a second hostage wouldn't make any sense. But, more than anything, he couldn't risk _her_. Even though he had promised Rufus that no one would get hurt, and he intended to do everything in his ability to keep that promise….when it came to active missions….he knew well enough that you just could never be sure.

So Lucy couldn't come.

And he was horrible to come here, and lay this on her….because she was still dealing with so much. Still dealing with her sister….and now with Jesse James…. But still, he _had_ to tell her. Because when you cared about someone like he cared for Lucy….when you trusted someone like that…..when you….crap. He had to tell her….that was all there was to it.

And what would she even think of the whole thing? Would she hate him? Would she see this as him playing with fate, with changing meant-to-bes? And yet, she knew he believed in choice….and that's all he was doing, he was making a choice. He squeezed his eyes shut against the new realization brought on by that thought. He was making a choice, wasn't he? A choice for Jessica….at the expense of the current timeline. And what would Lucy think of that? It wasn't just about changing history. He knew their friendship was equally as important to Lucy as it was to him….and he wasn't blind to the possibility that she was experiencing some of the same confusion _he_ was experiencing... Crap, would she see this as him abandoning her? Or maybe, just maybe….she might understand? Because of Amy, _because_ of James….maybe she would understand what he had to do, to save Jess?

He pounded on the door, before he changed his mind.

But he felt even more horrible on her appearance at the door. It was _late_ , and he probably woke her. Her cheeks were flushed, likely from racing down the stairs to make sure the idiot at her door didn't also wake her mother. Her hair was mussed, and she was dressed in lounge wear with a flowered robe that was purple, or mauve, or lavender, or whatever the hell people who knew about these things would call it….he was pretty sure it was one of those colours. _Focus Logan_!

"Look, I'm sorry, I know it's late, but I have to tell you something. I'm only telling you because I trust you."

He watched as her face set, serious and ready to hear whatever he had to say. But when he actually told her what he was doing, that he was stealing the time machine to save Jess….well, whatever she'd been prepared for him to say….it wasn't that. Her face had flushed with surprise—and how often was he able to surprise her?

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you're going to get into? I mean, this is….that's insane."

"That's an understatement," he nearly laughed. Then it was his turn to be surprised.

"Okay, let me get dressed."

His vision swam for a heartbeat, as a feeling like admiration, yet somehow deeper flooded through him. She was doing it again, thinking about him when she should have been thinking about her—she had just said the escapade was insane! _And_ she had to protect her own ability to fix the timeline and get her sister back—and yet she wasn't thinking of any of those things….she was just thinking about the fact that she didn't want him doing this without her.

He'd recently told Rufus that he had no one else….and that was so obviously wrong….but he hadn't wanted to admit it. He stared at her, trying to use her strength as an anchor for stability against the onslaught of feelings he was experiencing….but instead, it seemed to only alter the original feeling….that something-more-than-admiration feeling. The strange feeling turned into something close to an ache, an ache that stayed suspended, inside him, for a heartbeat as he examined it from all angles….and identified it as something that he most definitely knew was not just admiration...and then he pushed it away, desperately trying to focus on what he had to do

This wasn't the way this was supposed to go. He was in trouble, and he knew it….he was losing control. He tried to push the Lucy thoughts and feelings back into their compartments, trying to make them behave, to take control back from them. But it seemed like each time he pushed a thought back into its compartment, another compartment sprang open, like some ridiculous coyote and road runner cartoon. He knew if he didn't get control of all this soon, if he didn't get out of here and back to his plan, it was all going to overwhelm him. And, from past experience, he also knew that when he became overwhelmed, he had a tendency to go on auto-pilot. And when he went on auto-pilot? When he gave in and followed his emotions, his feelings….well that generally didn't turn out well for anyone.

He clenched his hands into fists, and worked to force it all out of the way, so that he could get on with it. He started talking again, explaining to her why he wouldn't let her come, and why it had to be tonight. He could actually see the realization dawning on her face then that this was happening. He saw her falter, for a heartbeat, then marvelled as she righted herself….and started to fight back. She started to fight back by talking—as he expected—it always had been her best weapon.

"What if Flynn takes out the Mothership? Again, while you're gone?"

He answered her calmly, with logic, "Then the Lifeboat CPU will tell us….we'll come right back."

"What if you get into a sticky history situation and you can't….history yourself out of it? What are you going to do….?

Her voice trailed off, but Wyatt still heard the whispered "without me".

"I've done my research."

Her face started to crumple, slightly; he could tell she was running out of arguments

"What if someone gets hurt?"

His could feel his face droop at that, he didn't like that question. He tried to explain, the same as he had to Rufus. No one would get hurt; he would make sure the killer's parents would never meet, that way he's never born…. And yet, he knew his voice had lost its earlier confidence with that statement. He knew he couldn't promise her that, and he knew that she knew that, as well.

He continued to watch her, as that face he knew so well….that beautiful face….continued to crumple. He tried desperately to defend his decision—to her, to himself….

"Lucy, Jessica's killer murdered two other women, my hope is to save all three," his confidence slowly returned as he allowed himself to deal just with the facts of it all—after all, facts were solid, facts were concrete. He knew he wasn't just trying to convince Lucy, but trying to convince himself, as well.

He noted the slight shift in her features, as she recognized she had lost that battle, and tried to change tactics.

"What about Rufus?"

"I Got him covered." He sighed.

"What about you? Best case scenario, you get kicked off the team."

She'd managed it. Yet again, she'd, perhaps unknowingly, demonstrated how well she knew him….how well she understood him. Because with that statement, the surge of dread that Wyatt hadn't even really realized he'd been holding back ever since making the decision, it swept through him. He desperately fought to stay afloat in the dark emotions, to stay alert, to stay functional.

"Yeah, well, whatever happens, it'll be worth it to have Jessica back."

He lifted his gaze to meet hers, when she didn't respond immediately, and was stunned by what he saw. Lucy Preston was speechless. And then all at once, multiple realizations crushed over him, like waves on a beach. He realized her eyes were welling with tears….and he realized just how hard she was working to hold it together….and he realized it was all his fault. Because now, even he could hear the sting in his words…especially if she maybe had started to think of him as more than a….but no, he couldn't think about that. He tried to collect himself, tried to reign in the emotions again….and he was nearly successful, until yet another realization washed over him, like the mother of all waves….the fact that this was All. Really. Happening.

He was going back in time, to save history, to save Jess….and he was going without her, which would change history…..change her history. But he had to do it….he didn't have a choice, did he?

While he was warring with that thought he watched as she became momentarily unsteady, and then sank onto a step, her face in her hands. At that moment, only one thought was a certainty in Wyatt's mind….he had to look away….away from her. To give her privacy? Or to assuage his guilt at making her feel this way? Perhaps he would never figure that out.

And yet, this was Lucy, and she was upset….and therefore he had to say something.

And he felt the tears burning behind his own eyes as he gathered his thoughts and sighed slightly.

"You okay?"

He watched as she lifted her head, once again the strong one, holding back the tears.

"What do you need me to do?"

 _Of course that was what she would say._

"I need you to Call agent Christopher, tell her everything. Just Give me a twenty minute head start, that way you'll be covered, you won't get in trouble."

He watched as she processed this request. He knew twenty minutes was hardly enough for him to do anything….yet he also knew that there was a surveillance crew outside Lucy's house—he had marked them when he had arrived. And, if she waited any more than twenty minutes, they would call in his late-night visit….and then everything would be ruined. Twenty minutes wasn't much….butt it was going to have to be enough.

He redirected his thoughts to her as he saw her give a slight shake of her head.

"Why does this feel like we're saying goodbye?"

He glanced down at his shoes, mouth opening and shutting, as he tried to form words, to verbalize a single thought. Hell….how was he supposed to answer that? She was staring at him with a piercing gaze that he didn't think he'd ever seen on her before….and then, without further preamble, she stood up, and approached him.

With Herculean effort, he lifted his eyes to meet hers again. He saw sadness, resignation, and something else? But, before he could identify it, she closed the small distance between them, and brushed at his jacket near his shoulder, straightening it.

"Good luck, Wyatt"

He couldn't move, couldn't think. After what seemed like an eternity, he was able to force himself to give a slight nod, and with a voice so hoarse he could barely recognize it, he heard his own words as though he were listening to them as part of a soundtrack at the cinema….

"Thank you, Ma'am."

He watched as she nodded in response. God—there was such strength in her. Even though her eyes were still filled with tears-just below the surface, there was this incredible strength, this honour…. But he couldn't think about that, could he?

Instead he nodded, glancing downward, away from those unfathomably deep eyes….then turned….and left.

As the door closed behind him, images and feelings filled his mind. Her selfless presumption that she would come to help him; watching her collapse in on herself in front of him, but then gathered herself again. Admiration swam through him at her strength, and was accompanied by a heartache, and confusion. The Lucy compartments threatened to spill open again, and he struggled to keep them barred.

This, this was why he had to do this, he had to get Jess back, before he became any more distracted….before he became any more confused.

Because he _was_ confused…..perhaps more confused than he'd ever been….confused for the future, for the past…..confused about his feelings….because he couldn't _have_ feelings for Lucy beyond friendship. And he _didn't_ , he told himself. His conscience scoffed at him, _Plausible deniability is all we need, my friend_.

But he had decided….he had made the choice. He had failed Lucy, but he wasn't going to let that happen again. But travelling without Lucy? When they changed history, her reality would be changed. And he hated the mere thought of that, that he would be purposefully and planfully messing with her memories, her reality. Because if he and Rufus saved Jessica…..what would Lucy remember? What on earth would Lucy or Agent Christopher, or anyone else for that matter, even think that they had stolen the time machine for upon their return to MI? How would they ever even begin to explain…?

Then realization settled in the pit of his stomach. If they saved Jess….things might have gone differently for him….and Lucy might not even know who he was, when he returned. And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing….the thought of her, on those stairs, trying to be strong and brave, but knowing she was breaking inside….she'd be so much better off, if she didn't know him. He paused for a moment, tensing his body, his hands, his face, his mind, then relaxing, letting a new thought wash over him. She'd be better off without him, without his lies. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and with a new found confidence and focus, he set off again. He was ready, ready to get Jess back.

* * *

 _Author's Notes: So it's interesting-I was never a big fan of the Jesse James episode, not that it wasn't well made...but just that it made me feel uncomfortable! But now that I've had to write my way through that ep., I have a new appreciation for it, and how the events in that episode may relate to the episode that came before it, and the one that comes after it. So I wrote many of my speculations into this chapter through Wyatt's thoughts-Please use the box to let me know what you think!_


	15. Chapter 15

**_AN - I have a confession to make—I *adore* episode 14. Even though there's not nearly enough Wyatt in it….which sucks….but man, that episode rocks. Just my opinion of course, but I think the episode is really well written—with the Lost Generation theme applicable to multiple major characters; the characterization of Hemingway, and how that influences the characters who meet him; and both figurative_** **and** ** _literal interpretations of the "Hero's descent to the underworld"….I love it all! And, while we're at it….the episode is super well-acted….and, for my money, it has the best Wyatt-Lucy hug in the whole first Season…. So yeah, it probably shouldn't have surprised me when my episode 14-centric chapter hit over 10,000 words! So….I've decided to split chapters again. For those keeping track, that now means this story will be 20 chapters in length._**

 _From Chapter 14:_

 _Then realization settled in the pit of his stomach. If they saved Jess….things might have gone differently for him….and Lucy might not even know who he was, when he returned. And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing….the thought of her, on those stairs, trying to be strong and brave, but knowing she was breaking inside….she'd be so much better off, if she didn't know him. He paused for a moment, tensing his body, his hands, his face, his mind, then relaxing, letting a new thought wash over him. She'd be better off without him, without his lies. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and with a new found confidence and focus, he set off again. He had failed Lucy, but he wasn't going to let that happen again. He was ready, ready to get Jess back._

* * *

Chapter 15:

The first few hours, alone in that cell, had nearly wrecked him. Images raced through his head: Jess—on their wedding day; Daelman—introducing him to room full of Rittenhouse; Jess—storming away from the car that night, Wes Gilliam—sneering form his cell; Joel Bender—running through the storm, trying to get away; Rufus—asking him, What would Jess think?; Lucy—head in hands, sitting on the stairs. And the images were punctuated by stabs of hot emotion—pain, regret, despondency, disgust. He'd felt so battered by it all, so lost. He'd managed to pull himself together enough to not lose it completely in front of Christopher, as she'd dropped him off at the black site….leaving him there seemingly to rot. Which was what he deserved. He deserved the cell….he deserved the isolation. At least in his cell, he wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else.

He couldn't even figure out….where it had gone off the rails. He was just trying to save Jess—which should have been the right thing to do….except it wasn't, because it meant changing history, which he was supposed to protect….and changing history would change the present….which was his, and everyone's….and what else did he have? Yet surely it was his job, to fix what he had destroyed those five years ago, wasn't it? Wasn't that the right thing to do? There'd already been so much violence. Shackles clanging against the metal on the table, he cradled his head in his hands. That was it then, wasn't it? He no longer knew….no longer understood….what was right, what was wrong….what was good….what was bad. In another time, maybe even a few hours ago, he would have counted on the mission…..counted on the absolutes of a mission to get him through this... But now he had nothing….his absolutes were turned to quicksand and were pulling him under….and he was so confused.

He pushed the emotion back, focusing again on his failed attempt to save Jess. Why hadn't it worked? Gilliam had admitted to it….and the other women, they were saved…. His head swam with the enormity of it. He had made his choice to change the past….and he had been successful in doing that….and yet it hadn't worked…. So what else was at play here? From somewhere deep in his mind a whispered voice tried to tell him—but he shoved it away, ignoring the implication. But he still couldn't focus on the here and now. He pushed himself back in his chair, tugging at his restraints. Now even his mental compartments, that had protected him for so many years, were failing him. Because he couldn't do it….couldn't keep the thoughts, the emotions, where they belonged anymore. It was as if all the violence he'd experienced in his life had found form in an image of Joel Bender—and he was now running amok in Wyatt's brain, pulling open his compartments, and breaking their latches. Images swam in his mind, gelling together and separating again….and then the feelings followed—rushing about his consciousness in an aimless, swirling storm.

A loud clank brought him back to himself. The cell door had opened, admitting a guard he hadn't seen previously. The guard—a boy really, how had he pulled this detail?—handed him a piece of beige paper, folded in threes. The guard then backed out of the room.

"Two minutes," he stated, before he closed the door behind him.

 _What the hell?_ Wyatt unfolded the paper to reveal several rows of neat handwriting:

 _"_ _Wyatt, Well now you've done it, haven't you? You should have listened to me. But you'll be happy to hear that I've called in some favours. Sign the confession, and I'll have you out of there before breakfast. "_

It was signed _"B. C."_

Wyatt crunched the paper into a ball. _Cahill…..dick_. Well, then—apparently he wasn't going to be signing any confession, no matter how guilty he was. Because he wasn't doing it. He wasn't going to allow Rittenhouse to make him even more beholden to them. He wasn't going to let them take away the only choice he still had. They didn't get to decide his future. He started to rip the paper in half, taking some small joy in destroying something that Cahill had cared enough about to write on….when he saw another, smaller and lighter scrawl across the back. It was different than the cursive he had already read—more hurried, with less pride in penmanship….but it was still in Cahill's hand. He un-crumpled the paper, until he was able to read the additional message:

 _"_ _PS: Baumgardner in, Sergeant Major Sullivan out….for now._ "

Bam Bam. He sighed in relief. But, that must mean that Lucy and Rufus had jumped….without him….

At that moment the guard burst back in.

"Two minutes are up, " he barked. "Give me the note."

"What?"

"That's the deal—I'm under orders to burn the message, to destroy it."

Wyatt gladly handed it over, with a grunted "Wouldn't want to have a written record, would we?"

The guard didn't look at him, only snatched the note, and set it alight with the flick of a lighter

* * *

Later, in the silence, Wyatt had tried again to bring sequence….logic, to the images filling his mind. He had failed Jess, he hadn't brought her back….she was still _dead_. But, if he had been successful in saving her? Then what? He realized that Jess might not even recognize the man he was now. He had hidden so much from her, during their marriage….and then with everything that had happened since….Rufus had asked what she would think, and he had known she would hate it….and not just that one decision. If she had returned to the timeline, to meet the man he was now….he knew he wouldn't really be her Wyatt….not anymore.

He didn't know how much time had passed, while he was stuck in that particular dark thought-loop. But something about the stillness of that cell—rather unexpectedly, everything suddenly seemed very clear.

He realized, in a rush, that _that_ was truly why he couldn't let go. That was why, five years later, Jess was still the focus of his life. Not just because he loved her—even though, of course he did, and he would love her for the rest of his life. But because _she_ was the one person who knew the old him, the _whole_ him, from before Syria, before he met agent Daelman….back when he had a grasp on right vs wrong…..before he felt so lost. She was the only person who knew the him he still _wanted_ to be….but the him he knew he could never be again. How could he let go of his only link to that version of him, the only person in the universe who could help him remember what being that person _felt_ like?

The images started flashing before him again, eventually pausing on the image of Lucy on the stairs. He laughed, mirthlessly, as the next realization washed across him. Because, what was truly sick, was that he knew the reason he couldn't stop himself from being sucked in by Lucy's spell was the other side of that same coin. Because Lucy _didn't_ know that previous version of him….the version before Rittenhouse, before the guilt….but she did know him now. And their careful dance….their friendship...and that other thing that was always hovering around the edges…. When he really allowed himself to think about it, he knew what it was….and he was fairly certain she knew it too. So yes, it was that hope—the _possibility_ that someone could know him, know the him that he was _now_ , and still think that he was worth trusting, worth valuing….worth caring about….that he had to hang on to. Because if the universe was unwilling to let him have Jess back….the possibility that someone—no, not _someone_ —the possibility that _Lucy_ could want to be with him….could maybe even love him…. If he was going to continue on—he had to cling to that—it was probably the only lifeline he had.

Except…. He had abandoned her. He had left her, on her staircase, with tears in her eyes. Because she knew….she _knew_ what he was doing, and she knew what it meant…. He'd even said the words to her….that he had to go back and save Jess, no matter the cost. Hell, going back, with a specific purpose to change the timeline? He could have changed _everything_. if he had saved Jess, would he still have been on the time team? Who would have been there to protect Lucy and Rufus? What might have happened to her? And yet he'd just stood there and told her…. Would it really have been worth it? If the worst had happened? And would she ever be able to forgive him for it? For making that choice? He closed his eyes again, the tears flowing.

It seemed so clear, now.

The Universe wanted Jess to be dead….fate didn't want them together. But to find that out, to learn that you can't always force fate's hand with your choices, even by changing the past…. The cost of learning that truth had possibly been to destroy his only hope for the future.

When Agent Christopher had visited him again, to let him know about the take-over of Mason Industries...that only added a new thread of guilt to the situation. Even if his joy ride had only been an excuse for the take-over….what if he _hadn't_ given them that excuse….or what if he had been there, instead of here…. Could he have made a difference? And wasn't it likely that Rittenhouse had their fingers in this too? It seemed probable, given the earlier communication from his new pen pal Ben. So, if Rittenhouse was involved….then was that on him, as well? He hung his head. All of his choices….across all these years. It was his own choices that had led to all of this….and he didn't know what to do. And he was so, so tired.

Wyatt cradled his head in his hands, restraints clanging again against the table, the sound momentarily redirecting his thoughts to his current situation. So that was it then, wasn't it? Jess was still gone. He was still a Rittenhouse lackey. Lucy would probably never want to see him again. Rittenhouse likely had his team and the Lifeboat. And he was imprisoned in a black site. By trying to save his past, he may have destroyed his present, and his future. This was where his decisions, every decision, since that day he first met Daelman, had brought him.

* * *

Wyatt peered harder at the sky illuminated by the streetlamp. The rain had suddenly let up. Well, hopefully that meant he wouldn't be dealing with a flash flood. Staring into the blackness outside, Wyatt let his mind flip back and forth between the clarity from that black site cell….to the choice he'd made for himself soon after while waiting for Lucy to be returned to him….and to tonight. He didn't deserve it, didn't deserve any of it. But Lucy loved him. She loved who he was _now_ ….and God, he loved her, he knew that now. Except…. Except she didn't know who he was….not really. She didn't know about him….about his history with Rittenhouse, about his lies. And how was he _ever_ going to tell her….especially now? Now that they were….he glanced back at the bedroom door. Now that they were….whatever this was, together….and now that she was his everything….even though she had been for some time, if he was honest with himself. How could he ever tell her?

He started to pace the room. He had to tell her. There was no question about that. He should have told her months ago. But when he told her….when he told her about _him_ , it might destroy her—and it definitely would destroy _them_. Wyatt even had a pretty good idea how she might feel….and the look that he would see on her face when he told her. Because he'd already _seen_ that look, already experienced those feelings from her….the night her mother told her the truth. And one thing Wyatt knew for certain….it would break him, to see those reflections of the feelings in her heart—that look on her face, in her eyes—and know that, this time, what she was experiencing _was all because of him_.

A flash of lightening lit the outside world beyond his window, followed by a rumble of thunder. He sighed, and stepped back toward the window, watching as the rain came down in torrents again. Where was that clarity from his time in the black site cell? He needed more of that tonight.

* * *

More time had passed, locked in that dimly-lit cell. Wyatt had been floating, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep—he had finally been able to quiet his thoughts enough that he'd been close to being able to manage a short nap, because he couldn't even remember when he had last slept. But then he was jolted back to full awareness by another clank from that damn door.

 _What now?_ But it was Agent Christopher again….and what was that all about? Another visit, just a few hours after her first…. _oh God! Lucy_.

"What happened?"

She looked at him curiously. "Nothing specifically," she began, and then he saw understanding dawn in her eyes. "Rufus and Lucy are fine—at least, they're still in the past. Jiya said she would contact me the minute they return."

"Then why are you back here?"

She raised her eyebrows in question at him, as she pulled the chair out, and sat across from him. It was only then that he noticed how drawn her face was, how tired.

"I have a confession document from the government that they want you to sign—they thought you'd respond best if I brought it to you…."

 _Hell no_ , thought Wyatt.

"But actually, I'm really here because I have some new information that I wanted to share—that I wanted you to be aware of." She went into her briefcase, pulling out some papers and photographs, and slid a photo of a vehicle—of a limousine—across the table toward him.

"This limo was parked outside of Mason Industries less than two hours ago. I know this car."

"So you've seen this limo at Mason Industries, so what?"

"Because I realized I've seen it before, and the Rittenhouse guy who owns it. He's the one Mason's been meeting in secret." She brought out another photo; one that Wyatt recognized instantly…. _Cahill_.

Wyatt felt dread build inside him….the next photo….surely the next photo would be of him and Cahill _together_ ….Christopher must have figured it out…. He tried to push away the fear, the shame….and forced himself to return to the situation at hand, because it was worse….worse than him being found out. This confirmed his fears, his fears that it was Rittenhouse that was behind this all….in control of everything...

"This is the creep that's been threatening Rufus?" he asked, already knowing the truth.

"Yeah."

"That means Rittenhouse is in control of Mason Industries….and the Lifeboat." He paused, barely able to make himself form his next words, "and Lucy and Rufus."

 _And he was stuck here, when he promised himself he'd protect her from them….stupid….stupid…._

"And there's something else," Agent Christopher began.

 _Here it comes_ , Wyatt thought—she probably thinks it's not what it looks like, the picture she has of Cahill and me meeting, and I'm going to have to tell her that it is _exactly_ what it looks like….

The dread and anxiety building within him about being found out were erased from his mind forever with Christopher's next statement.

"That guy?" she tapped the picture, "Is Lucy's biological father."

The words sent Wyatt reeling—metaphorically _and_ physically. It was as though time—everything—stopped, and seemed to shrink in on him. Eventually, he recovered enough to order himself to take a breath, to say _something_.

"What?" he sputtered, "Does she know?"

"She just found out."

He shook his head at the news. Because surely that wasn't possible…. it wasn't….possible….God, what was happening? Cahill…..Lucy. The events of the past months, since he first got in Cahill's limo, that night at the bar, started streaming through his brain, along with snippets of dialogue:

 _"_ _Let's just say I have a particular interest"_

 _"_ _He said I should ask you why you chose me, and what Rittenhouse means."_

 _"_ _She doesn't know anything about it….for now, at least"_

 _"_ _Don't get too involved."_

 _"_ _You kissed my….historian."_

 _"_ _What do you think John changed his name to?"_

The images and words wound back and forward again, as though on a video tape….and things started making sense. Then his own words, from before an early mission that seemed so long ago now, echoed repeatedly in his head, as punctuation:

 _"_ _I don't know what kind of guy is gonna answer that door."_

Lucy—how would she feel about this? What would this do to her? He'd been so afraid that Rittenhouse would try to recruit her….but this was so much worse. How could he ever protect her from this? And all the guilt, all the fear, the disgust, the dejection…..everything he'd been trying to bury for the last few hours came to the forefront again. Because he couldn't protect her. There was _nothing_ he could do about it. Not now, not in this black site prison. And without any true conscious awareness, he heard himself voicing that very same thought to Christopher. And then everything—all his compartments—seemed to let loose, again.

* * *

As he listened to Christopher's foot falls as she left the cell block, Wyatt gazed at the paperclip in his hand.

The intense clarity from earlier returned. He had done his best. He had fought for years to bring Jessica justice, and then risked it all, to bring her back. It hadn't worked. He was battered, broke down….but the universe was telling him to stand up and move on. To keep living, he had to move on. And he had a job to do, he had a purpose. Christopher's words echoed in his head. He was pretty sure he'd done nothing to deserve it, but the Universe had even seemingly laid out its plan for him on a silver platter. It wasn't about fixing the past….it could never be. Fixing this present, fighting for and protecting his friends….it was the best, the _only_ option. It wouldn't bring Jess back….but he could still make sure Rufus and Lucy would be safe. Lucy and Rufus….they would need him to be successful in what had to be their new mission….their new mission to destroy Rittenhouse.

And if he helped them and they were successful, if he actually fought against Rittenhouse? He would finally be free. _Free_. And the future would be full of possibilities, for the first time in years. He was nearly overcome with giddiness when the realization first hit him, a slightly-crazed giddiness that quickly transformed into a quiet, confident sense of calm….that calm that Lucy found so annoying. He had his purpose, like a man stepping out of fog and into sunshine. It was as though his self-loathing began to float into the distance, to slowly but surely be replaced by a nearly –forgotten warmth….the warmth of faith in the present, and hope in the future. Crazy as it sounded, he had become a changed man.

Except that he was locked in a black-site detention centre, in the middle of a forest. Really only a minor speed bump though, he thought, as he worked the paperclip in his shackles. If Uncle Sam, who no doubt was Rittenhouse too, knew what was good for him, he would have thrown away the key….or at least fashioned the black-site with electronic handcuffs that couldn't be picked with a paperclip.


	16. Chapter 16

**A huuuuge thank you to everyone who has been reading reviewing. When I started writing, I had a thought in my head about how awesome it would be to get 100 reviews. Well….because of all of you wonderful readers and reviewers…..it's getting really close to that….and this story's not done yet!**

 **Actually, this story seems to want to continue to grow….and I continue to split single chapters of my original outline into multiple chapters, because they're getting too long. So, I no longer have any idea how many chapters this thing will be when it wraps up. Seriously. Your guess is as good as mine. But anyway, for this chapter we are starting out just as Wyatt is escaping the "dark" prison site. I'm hoping to include a little bit of DeltaForce!Tradecraft Wyatt, .and then turn our attention back to the emotion of it all, again!**

 _From Chapter 15:_

 _And if he helped them and they were successful, if he actually fought against Rittenhouse? He would finally be free. Free. And the future would be full of possibilities, for the first time in years. He was nearly overcome with giddiness when the realization first hit him, a slightly-crazed giddiness that quickly transformed into a quiet, confident sense of calm….that calm that Lucy found so annoying. He had his purpose, like a man stepping out of fog and into sunshine. It was as though his self-loathing began to float into the distance, to slowly but surely be replaced by a nearly –forgotten warmth….the warmth of faith in the present, and hope in the future. Crazy as it sounded, he had become a changed man._

 _Except that he was locked in a black-site detention centre, in the middle of a forest. Really only a minor speed bump though, he thought, as he worked the paperclip in his shackles. If Uncle Sam, who no doubt was Rittenhouse too, knew what was good for him, he would have thrown away the key….or at least fashioned the black-site with electronic handcuffs that couldn't be picked with a paperclip._

* * *

Chapter 16:

Once free of his cell, that new found clarity continued to carry Wyatt forward, as he carefully moved through the prison yard and outbuildings, avoiding the small number of guards stationed by the exits and the road. Once he was able to get beyond the black-site compound perimeter, he knew it would be easy. He'd been behind enemy lines on plenty of occasions….and it was a whole lot simpler to manoeuver behind those lines in a national forest, than it was in a desert. Once into the cover of the forest, it was relatively easy to move through the trees, unseen, while keeping parallel to the service road that lead to the facility. He knew that, sooner or later, that service road would lead to either a main road, or a maintenance and facilities building. Either option would give him a way to get out, and back to the city, back to his team.

Night was falling quickly, but he didn't mind. The darker it was, the easier it would be to stay under cover. Thankful they hadn't outfitted him with a neon orange jump suite, Wyatt allowed himself to move closer to the road, still in the cover of the trees, but now able to see any potential headlights from traffic. He paused at a t-intersection, surveying his options. He had tried to maintain his sense of direction when he was first brought to the facility, but it had been difficult. After causing the blackout, he had realized that the complex itself was rather labyrinthine, and he had no idea if the door he exited was on the same side of the building as the one he had originally entered. Suffice to say, he was currently a bit disoriented.

He heard the low hum of a distant engine. He paused to listen. It was growing closer. He pushed himself back against a tree as lights from multiple approaching vehicles illuminated the foliage to his right. Two definitely-military SUVs came racing down the road, from the direction of the prison. They turned left at the intersection. He let their taillights fade into the distance, then disappear as they rolled around a distant bend in the road. With one more glance in the opposite direction, Wyatt sighed, and set off in the direction the vehicles had gone. They were no doubt in such a hurry because of him….so that meant they'd be travelling toward some form of civilization.

Now in near total darkness, Wyatt allowed himself to move out from the cover of the trees, and travel along the dirt road's shoulder, keeping his ears open for any sign of approaching traffic. For the first time since his escape from his cell, he allowed himself to think about his team. The fact that Cahill told him that Baumgardner was "in" likely meant that Lucy and Rufus had jumped again….without him. He forced himself to stop the darker thoughts that began to spin in his brain from that realization. Bam Bam was good….they would be fine. Instead of worrying, he allowed himself the indulgence of thinking about where….when….they might be. He hoped it was sometime with electricity. Rufus always did better when there was electricity—as though the created magnetic fields somehow nourished his spirit. And Lucy…. He hoped they were somewhere that excited Lucy….although he was hard-pressed to think of a time that _wouldn't_ excite her. But he hoped she was comfortable….and content….if that was possible, when you were chasing a mad man. Wyatt glanced up at the night sky through the tree tops. Even in the National Forest, the stars weren't as bright as they were in the past. _Was Lucy looking at the stars, whenever and wherever she was, right now?_ Which he realized was a ridiculous thought…..it could be high noon, whenever they had gone. But somehow, it still made him smile, the thought of Lucy in some far past night, looking at the same stars he was. Not that the stars would be exactly the same—the light that would be visible from the earth then would be older than the light he could see. _But—in the life of a star—what was a couple hundred years?_ He took a deep breath of night air, slowly exhaling, as he lowered his eyes back to the road. Regardless, they made him feel closer to her—the stars. And how ridiculous was that?

He continued walking along the road's edge, still thinking of her. Cahill….Lucy's biological father. It was completely unbelievable—yet somehow….made sense. Because of course, that was why she had been chosen. Christopher had said Lucy had just found out. How would she be feeling about it? Probably a million feelings, all at once. And then how would she be _dealing_ with that? The faster he got back to them, the faster he could let her know….let her know that she wasn't alone….that she didn't have to deal with this alone. Cahill! What had her mother been thinking? A new thought pushed the other aside, as he rounded a small bend in the service road. If Cahill was Lucy's father….than Lucy was a direct descendent of David Rittenhouse. Which was super-icky…..given what the man's plans for Lucy had been. But, it also meant that…. Lucy had saved John's life. She was here; she _existed_ , because she had stood up to Flynn, because she had done the right thing, and protected the boy….

He paused, both in motion, and in his thoughts, as his brain suddenly recognized the presence of an artificial light, blinking through the trees just ahead of him. He chided himself for allowing his mind to wander, instead of staying focussed on the mission at hand. He listened hard, but heard nothing—no engines. The light must be stationary….perhaps on a building? Moving back into the cover of the trees, he continued on, until he could make out the electrical pole with the solitary light at its top. Hanging on the pole was a small tin sign reading "authorized park staff only". Beside the pole, a small dirt track lead up a hill from the road. _Hallelujah….that was a maintenance driveway._ And where there was a maintenance driveway….there would be a maintenance shed….and, more importantly…..maintenance vehicles. He sprinted up the hill. As he expected, the shed and the yard were deserted, but there were multiple National-Forest-logoed vehicles parked beside the shed. Thank goodness. Although he'd certainly done worse in the past, hoofing it all the way back to San Francisco on foot wasn't really his idea of a good time right now. He moved toward the back of the yard, and selected the oldest pickup truck he could find. Older was definitely better, when it came to trying to hotwire things….and when it came to actually getting inside a locked vehicle.

It had taken much longer than he would have liked….but after several miss-steps and re-starts, Wyatt finally managed to coax the engine into turning over. He sent out a silent word of thanks to the Universe, when he saw the dash indicator read that there was nearly a full tank of gas. Without any further thought, he put the truck into drive, and set off back along the road in the same direction he had previously been travelling. In less than two minutes, he reached the main park road, and smiled, as he saw multiple road signs indicated the way back to the city. That smile grew broader, as ten minutes later, he was turning onto the highway. That hurdle was over. Now he would rejoin his friends, and he would help them, protect them—as they took out those Rittenhouse assholes, once and for all.

* * *

Now literally out of the woods, Wyatt began planning his next steps. It was a strange realization to remember that he was now a fugitive. Anywhere in the United States, was now officially "behind enemy lines." _Crap._ N _ow there was a life's turn he hadn't expected_. Back on the edge of civilization, Wyatt scanned the roadways for possible assistance. It was late, most businesses appeared closed.

He pulled into a run-down bar with a half-burnt out neon sign advertising "Drinks!" and "Food!". He had spied a pay-phone booth on the corner of the building, and there was nearly two dollars in change in the cup holder of the pick-up. Leaving the engine running, he ducked into the grimy booth—and sighed, as he saw that the actual _phone_ was missing, a dried-out pot of flowers in its place. Chewing on his lip he surveyed his surroundings. The old phone probably wouldn't have done him any good, anyway. Months ago, Agent Christopher had given the team a private emergency number, and had them all commit it to memory….just in case. But if Wyatt knew anything about emergency intelligence contacts….and anything about Christopher….he was fairly certain that he needed to send a text to the number….preferably from a non-registered cell. But it was too late to get one now. Somewhat reluctantly, he turned off the engine of the pick-up, closing the door behind him. His eyes scanned the bar in front of him again. Time for plan B.

The door to the bar swung open with a riotous screech. Wyatt grimaced inwardly. _So much for making a casual entrance_. Glancing around the darkened space, it didn't look all that different from any number of drinking establishments he'd visited over the years—worn and broken furniture, décor consisting almost exclusively of neon beer advertisements, and a lone pool table whose felt had definitely seen better days. It was going to have to be good enough.

He sighed, as he scanned the patrons. One grizzled man sat at the corner of the bar, staring up at the television. There were two couples sitting at tables at the back of the room, both nursing their pints. _Not much to work with…._ At that moment, the bartender entered—the saloon-style doors to the kitchen swinging closed behind her as she yelled something colourful back over her shoulder toward, presumably, the cook. Mid-thirties, a little rough and tough around the edges, but still pretty, and no wedding band. Bingo.

Wyatt made his way toward the bar. The bartender noted him immediately, and motioned for him to take a stool in front of her.

"Well hi there, what can I get you?"

Wyatt put on his most charming grin, "Hi yourself. You know, that pay phone outside has seen better days."

"Pay phone?" she questioned. "Haven't had anyone ask about the pay phone in a long time.

"I like to be unique," he smiled.

She smiled back. "Well, that you are! But, in case you've been in a coma since 1982….you know there are more efficient ways to reach out these days."

"1982, eh?" There was his hook. He sent out a silent thanks to Rufus for this next bit. "Don't have my phone with me," he shrugged, "and I needed to make a call….but mostly I'm just concerned about what's going to happen to poor ET if he shows up looking to call home."

She laughed, and corrected him, as he'd been hoping she would.

"It's _phone_ home….ET phoned home."

Perfect, now they had a connection, and she had already helped him with something small….now it would be easier to get her to help him with something bigger.

He nodded back, "Of course, you're right. ET phone home."

"Janice," she reached out her hand.

"Wyatt," he answered back, shaking it.

"So Wyatt," she continued, "What can I get you?"

He gave her his best charmer smile again, and reached into his pocket.

"Sadly, not much," he chuckled, showing her the change, "I could desperately use a whisky, but I somehow doubt that $1.84 is going to cover it."

She gave him a flirty pout. "No phone and $1.84 to your name….I'm not sure you're the type of guy I should be hanging out with, Wyatt."

He leaned back in his chair, and she immediately leaned forward, keeping the distance between them the same.

"Would you believe it? My buddies just pranked me. They ran off with my car….which had my phone in it….and my wallet. Which was why I needed the pay phone, thought my pocket change might be good for something after all…." He trailed off, as he watched her pour a whisky from the top shelf, putting it on the bar between them.

"On the house," she replied at his questioning gaze.

"Ah, you shouldn't really—"

She waved him off. "Don't worry about it. You can pay me by keeping me company, and telling me all about your buddies and this prank."

Wyatt shifted uncomfortably on his stool. _Crap. That wasn't supposed to happen. She was_ supposed _to hand him her phone….apparently he was getting rusty._

"Way more entertaining than talking to Desmond over there," she continued, nodding toward the older man at the corner of the bar, who now seemed to have fallen asleep with half a pint still in front of him. Janice smiled at Wyatt and continued, "And, after you tell me your story, you can use my 21st Century cell phone to call whoever you were going to call," she glanced at his hand, "Maybe your girlfriend….?"

My brother. He'll pick me up."

She beamed at him.

He took a sip of his whisky. Okay, so mission flirt your way to freedom was going to take a little longer than expected….but he could spin a story with the best of them. So he launched into a story about a group of friends, who mysteriously sounded like his Afghanistan crew, and a prank. He based the prank on one of Bam Bam's classic practical jokes against the new recruits….except he left out the bit about the frog, because even _he_ didn't believe that part….and he was there to see it happen….but the story followed the rest of the generally good-natured fun to a "T". Janice watched him intently, laughing at all the appropriate parts, and generally ignoring the rest of her patrons.

Wyatt took another drink from his glass, watching Janice wipe tears of laughter from her eyes.

"Well Wyatt, I can't decide if those are the best friends a guy could have or the worst….but at least they are very entertaining."

At that moment, one of the patrons at the table in the back waved to her.

"Hang on a minute, I gotta go get that," she came out from behind the bar, "Oh—here's my phone," and she handed it over to him as she went back to check on her customer.

Wyatt texted the number Christopher had given him, and waited. Luckily, less than a minute later, there was a reply:

Oakland Bay Refrigeration and Air conditioning, warehouse district on Poplar Ave. Gang arrives in an hour.

Wyatt committed the information to memory, and quickly erased the texts. He looked up, to see Janice still deep in conversation with the woman at the back table. He called up a map on the phone. Without entering the address, he scanned the warehouse district until he found the location. Comfortable he knew where he was headed, he reset the map to the main page, and turned the phone off, just as Janice came up behind him.

"Any luck?" she asked.

"Actually, yeah," he smiled, as he returned the phone to her. "I gotta go meet him a little way from here."

"So you have to go then?"

He finished his drink, pushing the glass back toward the back of the polished wood surface, as Janice walked behind the bar again.

"Yeah….he'll be waiting for me."

Wyatt stood from the stool. "Thanks for the drink….and the use of your phone."

She grinned back, "Happy for the company. I hope you think of some way to get back at those friends of yours."

He chuckled at that. "Don't worry, I'll think of something." As he was about to turn to leave, he remembered the change in his pocket, and turned back to give it to her.

"Your tip. $1.84….all my money in the world, thank you again."

She winked at him, as she scooped up the change. "Any time, honey. Come by and see me again."

He gave a small wave, and started walking toward the door—his mind now firmly planted on the next step. He was going to see them soon—Rufus and Lucy—and he was going to protect them, as they fought back against Rittenhouse.

* * *

Swinging himself back up into the truck, he again thanked the Universe, or whatever force or greater power it was that seemed to be protecting him tonight. The truck was _much_ easier to start the second time. Knowing he couldn't very well just drive the park vehicle to the warehouse, when someone was likely looking for him, he took a purposefully circuitous route, and pulled the truck into the back of an out-of-the-way bus station parking lot. He gave the truck a once-over sweep with his eyes, grabbing anything that looked potentially useful—a small screw driver, a pen, some bungee cords….because you just never knew. He stashed everything in a cloth bag that was behind the seat, and set off on foot, in the opposite direction of the bus depot.

He was still a ways from the rendezvous location—and given Christopher's timeline of an hour, it would take far too long to walk. It was too late for transit options, not that he had bus fare anyway. He was also pretty sure he wasn't brave enough to attempt to hitch hike. Without other options, he continued walking in the general direction of his destination, waiting for inspiration to strike. And then it did.

There, in front of him on the deserted street, was a bike-sharing depot. Bikes that could be shared and ridden about the city, to be dropped off at another depot. One big problem….he was not a member of said bike-sharing service.

Looking over his shoulder, to ensure he wasn't being watched, he knelt down in front of the panel board. It apparently operated by pass-code….which meant he could circumvent it. With one more look over his shoulder, he fished the screwdriver from the bag, and jimmied open the casing. Just two wires—basically the same as hot-wiring a car. Easier, actually. In less than a minute, Wyatt had unlocked one of the bicycles, and had hastily closed up the casing of the passcode box again. A fifteen minute bike ride later, Wyatt was in the warehouse district, just blocks from the meeting point….just blocks from his team, the voice in his head sang. He spied another bike depot, and parked it in its locking mechanism. Just a couple blocks to go, on foot.

Once he had returned the bike, and was back on foot, and was so close to the meeting point….it gave him time to actually think. Christopher had said the gang would be at the warehouse, which meant that Rufus and Lucy had returned safely from the past. With some surprise, he then realized that full implications of Rufus and Lucy travelling without him. History could have changed. What would that _feel_ like, if they had changed history, and that had changed his present? Would he have been aware? What _did_ that feel like, for all the other people in the world, when Flynn or the Time Team had changed history? Like nothing, he supposled. The new history, the new present, was just what everyone experienced as their reality, they didn't remember anything else. If history had changed….then _he_ wouldn't remember anything different, either. And that was terrifying. He supposed that fact that he still _remembered_ Rufus and Lucy was a good thing. And he still knew that his purpose was to protect and help them—to stop Rittenhouse. But….what if he was remembering a _different_ Rufus and Lucy than the ones he was about to meet?

He closed his eyes against that thought….no. He wasn't going to let himself entertain that idea….and made a mental note to not let them travel without him again…..until he remembered:

Lucy. _He and Rufus_ had travelled without Lucy. And he'd been so wrapped up in the aftermath of it all-what happened to Joel, learning about Jessica…..

When Lucy said she Jessica still dead….he hadn't thought at the time—but what if he'd somehow changed history in such a way that it had _changed_ things—between him and Lucy? Lucy remembered him, obviously…..but what if their relationship was different? What if _this_ Lucy didn't come to his apartment after missions to watch old movies and drink wine…..what if _this_ Lucy didn't constantly talk and lecture him about the finer points of late nineteenth century US social customs, what if _this_ Lucy wasn't terrible with coming up with San Filipe-esque cover stories for the two of them…..

What if _this_ Lucy didn't give soul-inspiring hugs, like that one in Chicago?

And then he was gripped by another thought. And what if this Lucy was _exactly_ the same Lucy that he knew? The one that he had abandoned on his mission to save his wife….the one to whom he had said _it would be worth it, no matter what_ …..

His heart lurched with the realization. Because it wouldn't take a cosmic shift in timeline to drive a wedge between him and Lucy. He was more than capable of doing that all on his own. What would she think of him, after abandoning her, like that? Would she even want to see him? Would she even want his help, his protection anymore? Or would she say thanks, but no thanks? And then what would he do? What would he do, if he couldn't protect them, couldn't bring down Rittenhouse….what would he do without Lucy?

He'd become so wrapped up, in this line of thinking, that he hadn't even realized that the Oakland Refrigeration Warehouse was right in front of him. He shook his head to clear it, and scanned the perimeter. It was quite….and seemed deserted. He made note of a suspicious box with wiring attached to the fire escape on the left side…..likely an impromptu security camera….Christopher knew what she was doing. He centred his thoughts. It was true, he didn't know what he was walking into….didn't know if Lucy would want to see him, didn't know if they would want him as a part of their fight….but he did know one thing: He knew that being a part of their fight, protecting them, bringing down Rittenhouse—was all he had left. And it was what he intended to do….until Lucy looked him in the eyes and told him she wanted him to leave. And then he would do that….because she asked it of him.

But he had to find out.

Wyatt allowed the calm found in his black-site cell to fill him again. He was at peace with whatever the Universe had in store for him. He opened the door, and walked slowly form the blackness of the foyer down the stairs into the dully-lit interior—to nearly have the wind knocked out of him by the force with which Lucy embraced him. Thank God. This was still his Lucy….still the Lucy that gave soul inspiring hugs. More than just inspired….his soul was singing now, as a second realization followed swiftly after the first: This was still his Lucy….and somehow….she had forgiven him for leaving her, for abandoning her to try and change history. Tears sprang to his eyes that he refused to shed, but he reveled in the sensation of them-of everything, as he held her, as he felt her clinging to him. Because it was all going to be okay. This was his Lucy….and they were together….and it was all going to be okay.


	17. Chapter 17

**_This chapter is dedicated to Gracielinn, who helped me out a whole bunch regarding a very specific plot point….Thank you!_**

* * *

 _From Chapter 16:_

 _He centred his thoughts. It was true, he didn't know what he was walking into….didn't know if Lucy would want to see him, didn't know if they would want him as a part of their fight….but he did know one thing: He knew that being a part of their fight, of protecting them, of bringing down Rittenhouse—was all he had left. And it was what he intended to do….until Lucy looked him in the eyes and told him she wanted him to leave. And then he would do that….because she asked it of him. But he had to find out._

 _Wyatt allowed the calm found in his black-site cell to fill him again. He was at peace with whatever the Universe had in store for him. He opened the door, and walked slowly form the blackness of the foyer down the stairs into the dully-lit interior—to nearly have the wind knocked out of him by the force with which Lucy embraced him. Thank God. This was still his Lucy….still the Lucy that gave soul inspiring hugs. More than just inspired….his soul was singing now, as a second realization followed swiftly after the first: This was still his Lucy….and somehow….she had forgiven him for leaving her, for abandoning her to try and change history. Tears sprang to his eyes that he refused to shed, but he reveled in the sensation of them-of everything, as he held her, as he felt her clinging to him. Because it was all going to be okay. This was his Lucy….and they were together….and it was all going to be okay._

* * *

Chapter 17:

Wyatt reveled of the rightness of having Lucy in his arms—how could he possibly deserve this? Somehow, Lucy wasn't angry with him. Somehow, she'd actually forgiven him for his dick move of abandoning her to try and change the past. She'd _forgiven_ him. And, if she could forgive _that_ , then surely…..

She gradually loosened her hold on him, and he reluctantly let her step back. _If she could forgive that…._ And he'd almost done it….almost told her, confessed his Rittenhouse sins to her, right there, right then….but he hesitated. What was he supposed to say— _Hey Luce, did you know I've been having chats with your Dad for years now? Real smarmy asshole, that guy._? It wasn't the right time, the right place….and there was certainly too much of an audience. _S_ o instead, he just told her he was sorry….which he was….so very sorry, for so many things.

"Lucy, I heard about your father. I'm so sorry." He didn't miss the way her eyes dropped momentarily, the way the corners of her mouth twitched down. "But you know that dick's got nothing to do with you, right?"

He watched sadly as she gave only a half-way convincing nod.

But then agent Christopher broke in, bringing him back to the reality of the situation. Rittenhouse was in control of Mason Industries. Rittenhouse was in control of the Lifeboat. Wyatt could sense the panic rising in his team at the idea. They were right to be concerned, but panic wasn't useful, panic wouldn't help them _fight_. So he told them—told them about his new mission, his new duty, that he would protect them….protect them while they fought against Rittenhouse.

"We make the _choice_ to fight," he told them.

"But how," began Lucy, "Those agents, they're Rittenhouse, but they're government too…."

"What can we possibly do to fight that?" asked Rufus. "We can't just….I don't know…..go rogue, and turn our back on the government, on our country."

"Why not?" Wyatt asked. "Listen, we know that Rittenhouse has horrible plans for the Lifeboat. They'll change our present, by changing history…."

"And we have to protect history," Lucy finished for him.

"Exactly," he smiled as he saw the panic in his team's eyes fade to a quiet acceptance. "What the government expects, what….our bosses expect, what our parents…." he glanced meaningfully at Lucy, "….expect. None of that matters. Right here, right now….we can make the choice. The choice to protect history, the choice to protect the present."

Christopher nodded solemnly. "And the choice to protect countless people who could be….disappeared, if Rittenhouse has their way."

"They can't defend themselves….and they have no one to defend them," whispered Lucy.

"They have us," said Wyatt.

"What do we think, people?" asked Christopher.

"I'm in," said Lucy.

Rufus sighed grandly. "I knew the whole 'Rufus, you're the only pilot we've got' thing would get old in a hurry," he shook his head with a smile, and then looked back toward his team. "But I'm in too. Nobody gets to decide our futures, except us, right?"

For the next twenty minutes, the team brainstormed a multitude of ways to possibly fight against Rittenhouse. Most of them very complicated, and most of them unlikely to be successful. Wyatt leaned against a work bench, closing his eyes and trying to keep his mind open for new ideas without falling asleep, while Rufus extolled the virtues of computer viruses.

 _He was so tired._

Now, Rufus was talking about computer worms and computer….caterpillars? That wasn't really a thing, was it? Opening his eyes again, he took a moment to centre himself. He was a Master Sergeant in Delta Force….and a fugitive from the government….and was planning a fight against a shadow-group with close ties to government, the military, and likely the justice department, as well.

A group that he was also a member of.

Talk about your whacked out double-agent crap.

His thoughts circled again through his head. He was a member of Rittenhouse. Well—maybe. Stealing the time machine to try to save Jess may have stopped that association….he'd probably be on their "most wanted" list, by now. He almost laughed. Guess that would make it easier to tell Lucy his Rittenhouse ties. And, once they stopped Rittenhouse, it wouldn't be an active situation anymore. That would be when to tell her, and then it would all be okay….

He forced himself out of his thoughts and back to the situation at hand, as Agent Christopher raised her hand, sternly hushing an argument that had begun between Rufus and Lucy with regards to the best way to extract Jiya from Mason Industries.

"Okay, enough. This isn't helping us," she said, her face kinder than her words.

Wyatt stood straight again, and walked toward his team members, coming to stand between Rufus and Lucy. "Look, I know this is hard….but I think we're all making this more complicated than we need to. What's the number one priority for us, right now?"

"The Lifeboat," said Lucy.

"Right. So, we need to get the Lifeboat away from Rittenhouse. Good news, the only pilot of said Lifeboat, is on our side." He grinned at Rufus. "Otherwise, this wouldn't be a very successful venture. So—if we want the Lifeboat away from Rittenhouse, all that has to happen is for Rufus to pilot it….away from Rittenhouse."

"So we try to steal it?" asked the pilot.

"No, too conspicuous," stated Christopher. "Besides," she said, glancing in Wyatt's direction, "After your best of the '80s tour, I'm sure security has been increased."

"So we wait," began Lucy. "Until we have a legitimate opportunity to take the Lifeboat out….the next time Flynn jumps. Then, after we deal with Flynn, or before? I don't know….but then we just change the navigation route—we bring the Lifeboat back somewhere other than Mason Industries.

"Like this warehouse," said Rufus.

Wyatt nodded his agreement. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Rufus shook his head, "But, as long as we're in the Lifeboat, Mason can track us. That means Rittenhouse can track us. Unless…." He trailed off.

"Come on Rufus, you got this," Wyatt encouraged, "Unless what?"

"Unless I use that computer worm after all. I make it so that it doesn't take over the system until _after_ we jump…..then, once we're in the past, it can fry the system-make it impossible for Mason or Rittenhouse to see where we're going."

"And you can do this?" asked Christopher.

"Maybe," he replied. A slight smile crossed his face, "Probably." Then, a glint of steel flashing in his eyes, he responded again: "Yes….definitely."

"Okay," said Wyatt. "So you guys jump, legitimately, and Rufus lets loose the worm that ate MI." He shook his head slowly then, and before he even realized what he was doing, he was speaking out loud the dread that had been gathering at the edge of his consciousness: "I don't like the idea of you guys jumping without me again."

He saw Lucy nod slightly, to his side, but couldn't bring himself to look at her.

"Maybe you just, I don't know…. _bounce_ in the past, then come right back here, to the warehouse, and get me."

Then another thought struck him. "We should decide whether or not we're bringing Bam Bam into this. I think we could trust him to…" he stopped, seeing Lucy's face go pale.

"Wyatt," she started.

And he knew, knew before she said another word, knew from that look….the look of heartbreak for him in her eyes. He held his hand up to stop her, about to say he understood—but he found no words. Instead, he brought his hand toward his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, and squeezed his eyes shut. A whispered, " _Shit_ ," was all he could manage.

"We're so sorry, man," he heard Rufus say quietly.

He lifted his head, refusing to allow tears right now. "When?...where?"

"Paris, 1927. Flynn's goons—Dave was trying to protect us, they shot…." The words tumbled out of Lucy like a waterfall. Wyatt could see unshed tears in her eyes, too.

He couldn't think about this—not right now. He closed his eyes again, for a heartbeat, then raised his head, looking at the trio across from him. "Well then….we know we need to eliminate whoever the new assigned soldier is."

" _Eliminate_?" He heard Rufus' voice rise in pitch.

"No—no," Wyatt said quickly, "I don't mean kill him….I just mean that we need to control his presence as a variable."

"What?" asked the bewildered Rufus.

Christopher shrugged, "Knock him out, tie him up….you get the idea."

"Oh sure," said Lucy, "Rufus and I will just incapacitate a highly-trained special forces military operative….no biggie."

Agent Christopher chuckled lightly. "I think I might have something to help with that."

She went to the side of the room, and pulled a wheeled cart toward the group. On top of the low cart, was a large metallic box. Stopping the cart in front of the time team, she knelt, and keyed in a code to the locking mechanism on the side of the chest. "I thought we might need some things…."

The lock sprang open, and Christopher opened the chest to reveal it was filled to the brim with a large and creative variety of firearms and other weapons.

Rufus let out a nervous chuckle, "Holy…."

Wyatt whistled low. "Whoa….Remind me not to piss you off again."

Denise smiled, "A girl's gotta be prepared, right?" She dug through the chest until she found what she was looking for, pulling out a tranquilizer gun. "Will this help?"

Wyatt gave her an appreciative grin, "That should work nicely."

"Wait, you mean for the soldier?" asked Rufus.

"Yeah," said Wyatt.

"So," began Lucy, rubbing at her neck while staring warily at the weapon in Christopher's hands, "Who does the honours?"

No way was Wyatt going to make Lucy pull the trigger…..not after everything she'd been through, especially not after Jesse James….he wouldn't allow her to be put through that. Instead, he smiled at Rufus, "You are."

"Me, why me, man? I mean….you don't want me in charge of shooting that thing….do you know how few times I've shot a gun? What if I miss….GI whoever-he-is will be super pissed, if I miss."

Wyatt couldn't help laughing at that. "Because, whoever this guy is, he'll be sitting immediately opposite Lucy in the Lifeboat. He'll see whatever she does, and….sorry, Luce, but I just don't think you're a fast enough draw, to make that work. Rufus, on the other hand, you can prep the gun while you're messing with the Lifeboat controls—he won't see it. I mean, especially if you do it right after the jump…..when he's still feeling like his insides are being pulled out his nose. By the time you turn around to face him, he won't be able to react." Wyatt gave a firm nod, quite proud of himself for coming up with a reasonable explanation for why it couldn't be Lucy.

"So I turn around and what—shoot him?"

"Yeah."

"Just like that?"

Wyatt could see the panic starting to rise again in his friend. "Yeah, just like that. Squeeze the trigger gently, between breaths. The gun will do all the work for you. And remember, it's a tranq gun, that's it—all that's gonna happen is he'll have a nice little nap."

Lucy had been looking thoughtful through this. "So….once he's out…."

Denise cut in—"Then you come right back here. We replace the unconscious soldier with Wyatt…."

Rufus cut in, "I guess that's a slight improvement."

Wyatt shot him a look, "Nice."

Christopher raised her eyebrows at both of them, but continued. "And then the three of you have the machine….and you've taken the control away from Rittenhouse."

Lucy cleared her throat. "But then what?" She rubbed her neck, "Flynn will still be out there…."

Wyatt smiled at her, "So we stop Flynn…..and then we stop Rittenhouse. One problem at a time"

Rufus shook his head, "Not to start this conversation over again but….how?"

A small smile played at Christopher's lips as she said, "Once we have the Lifeboat….we have time. We'll figure it out."

A ping sounded from Rufus' phone, and he held it up, for the others to see. "Jiya. Good news—Rittenhouse hasn't decided to kill her yet."

"Rufus," Lucy said, "I know you're worried, but she'll be fine….they don't know even know that we know….they're not going to do anything to her."

"Still," he said, putting the phone away, "I think I better get over there….just, you know, check in. Besides, I can start working on that worm."

"Makes sense," said Wyatt, looking at Christopher for confirmation.

She nodded.

"So….we're good?" asked Wyatt.

"Good," said Lucy and Rufus together.

Christopher gave the tranq gun to Rufus. "Get this on the Lifeboat, without anyone noticing."

"No problem," he said, accepting the gun.

"Okay people….good work," said Christopher. "I need to take care of a few things, but I'll be back."

Rufus started toward the door, then turned back, "Lucy—you coming with me to MI?"

Wyatt watched for her reaction.

She was silent for a moment, then said, "No….I mean, there's no reason why they'd expect to see me there….not yet. I'll wait until they call me in."

Rufus and Christopher started to move toward the door, Wyatt following behind.

Before starting up the stairs, Rufus turned to look back at Wyatt, shaking his head, "I sure hope this works."

"It will. Remember, pull it between breaths. You'll be good." He clapped his friend on the shoulder.

Christopher checked a monitor resting on a wheeled metal table, then looked back at the two men. "Okay, I'll be a couple of hours….you're okay here, Wyatt?"

"Yes, ma'am."

He watched her as she glanced back at the monitor, seemingly thinking, planning...and then turned back to him.

"Can I bring you some things? Food?"

Wyatt smiled. "Whatever you bring is perfect."

She nodded, knowingly. "You go tit." She looked toward Lucy, who had remained in the main room of the facility. "Lucy—we'll see you soon."

Christopher gave one more check to the monitors on her security cameras, then, nodding over to Rufus, the pair left; up the stairs and out the side door.

Wyatt turned to walk back toward Lucy. She was no longer pacing, as she had been during the conversation, but was sitting cross-legged on the edge of a stack of wooden pallets. She had removed her coat, which was now in a crumpled pile beside her. That made him take notice—that was definitely not like her. As he neared, he took in her appearance more carefully. She seemed to be staring at nothing in particular, looking pensive, and rubbing her neck. With a start, he realized that he'd noticed her rubbing her neck earlier, when they were talking about the tranq gun, too.

With a gentle smile, he closed the last few feet between them, "You okay?"

"Of course."

He frowned. There was no way she was okay….not in any sense of the word. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, thinking. Start with the obvious, he figured.

"Lucy….i'm not blind….are you sore?"

She stopped rubbing, looking slightly guilty. "Yeah….just a little….mostly stiff."

Suddenly overcome by something that felt like shyness, of all things, he jammed his hands into his jean pockets then pulled them out again, and motioned his chin toward her. "S'okay if I try to…." He realized he was ridiculously miming a back massage with his hands, "….help?"

She quirked an eyebrow at him, looking somewhere between laughter and embarrassment for a moment, but then she simply nodded.

He stepped around behind her, hands hovering about her shoulders for a moment. _Why was this feeling so strange? Why was he suddenly feeling like he had no idea how to do this?_ In the next breath, he lowered his hands to her neck and shoulders, and thankfully, muscle memory took over. He was no longer thinking about what he was doing, and the awkwardness of the anticipation disappeared, replaced by the warmth and comfort that was forever associated with "Lucy" in his mind.

"Is this okay?"

"More than okay," she replied, and he smiled to himself, as he felt her lean in to his touch.

He turned his focus to the warmth and softness of her skin against his fingers. He set to work, smoothing out the muscle knots in her neck as best he could. Beginning to feel braver, he moved on to her shoulders, brushing his fingertips just under the neckline of her sweater, then gliding his hand over her skin. He could feel her muscles start to relax, little by little. Maybe once he had helped her with her physical discomfort she would open up to him about some of the bigger reasons….the less physically obvious reasons…why she was not okay, he hoped. But for now, they coexisted in a companionable silence.

At some level, Wyatt realized that he was relaxing too—that he was enjoying this. He also recognized that a stream of Lucy-feelings was quickly escaping from its compartment. His new-found calm and focus allowed him to study the feelings, and identify them for exactly what they were—and _that_ realization was enough to pretty much completely de-rail the calmness and serenity that he had been enjoying. He was about to squash them all back into their compartment again—after all, he was just trying to help a teammate in pain, this was not about desire….not about….that other emotion just bubbling just below the surface.

He….she….they….didn't need _that_ complication. But, surprising himself, something in him decided _not_ to squash the feelings, instead letting them just flow and move like a stream on the outside edge of his consciousness. He continued his ministrations. Lucy occasionally sighed audibly as she relaxed—he suspected it was louder than she had intended.

Something about the feeling of her skin, knowing that he was helping her in this real way….it gave him courage to tune in again to those Lucy-feelings again. With some curiosity, he realized they weren't as scary as they used to be. Leaving that "Lucy compartment" open for so long seemed to have encouraged some of his other compartments to open as well—he recognizes tiny flares or remorse, fear, and doubt—all in and amongst the positive Lucy-feelings. But somehow, they seem less important now, less intimidating, and he watched them travel down the stream of positive Lucy-feelings to disappear in the distance….not able to affect him, not able to own him, the way they had in the past.

"Thank you," she said so softly, it was nearly a whisper.

But her words still broke him out of his reverie. He continued to move his hands over her neck, her shoulders, but softer now, tracing meandering patterns across her skin.

"Luce….how are you doing….really?"

He felt her shrug slightly, beneath his fingertips.

"I….I don't know. It's strange….because in some ways, it feels like nothing has changed at all….but at the same time, everything's changed. This man….this man is my _father_ ….and I don't know anything about him, except that he's a member of some group of elitist….I don't even know! Just this group that has been responsible for so many horrible things through history….is still doing them….and is threatening my friends…..and he thinks I'm going to join him! And how could he ever think that….unless…..what if he's right? Wyatt, what if I really don't have a choice?"

The rate of her speech had been increasing dramatically as she spoke, she turned her head to face him, as best she could, holding his gaze as the words rolled out—gaining momentum ,….until that last questioning word—higher in pitch, seeming to beseech him to help her.

"Lucy," he brought his hands to rest on her shoulders. He paused, just _being_ , just feeling the connection with her for a handful of heartbeats, until he saw some of the terror fade from her eyes, felt some of the tension leave her body.

"First of all, you know who your _real_ father is—and don't you ever let yourself forget that. The man who helped shape everything about you, about your sister"

She nodded quietly, not breaking eye contact.

"I know I don't have to tell you this—but you know that just being there the night of….conception doesn't make you a father….hell I know that from my own childhood….but you had a real dad, a good dad, a dad you loved and who loved you—I mean, I never met the man, but I can pretty much guarantee that you and your sister meant everything to him….just from the way you talk about him.

She sniffed, wiping away a lone tear, but he was feeling his confidence grow, as he saw a smile play at the corners of her mouth.

"And second of all….I _know_ you know that you _do_ have a choice."

She dropped her gaze to her hands, but leaned back against him, slightly.

He took that as a positive sign, and continued on. "I also know this sentiment is practically becoming cliché with us….but you know that no one gets to decide our futures except _us_. If you don't want to join Rittenhouse….then choose to not join Rittenhouse….make that choice….and screw what your biological father….or what anyone, for that matter, thinks."

"Pretty sure you already said that, like half an hour ago."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He started moving his hands across her shoulders again. "Well I guess that means it's important." He gently tugged her back, until she was looking at his face again, and gave her a lazy smirk. "And who would have thought that you were listening to me?"

She raised an eyebrow, then gave him a warm smile. "I always listen to you."

He chuckled lowly at that, "Could have fooled me."

"Just 'cause I choose to ignore you, doesn't mean I'm not listening."

He laughed for real this time, and his spirits brightened immensely when he realized from the shake of her shoulders that she was giggling. He gave her shoulders a pat, and then moved around the side of the pallet stack, to stand beside her. She scooted forward, swinging her legs around so they dangled over the edge of her make-shift seat. Giggles now subsided, she tipped her head to the side and patted the spot on the wood beside her. Quickly accepting the unspoken invitation, he settled beside her on the hard surface.

She was facing slightly away from him now, so that he saw her face in nearly perfect profile. He took a breath, and exhaled, whispering her name: "Lucy….I can't even imagine, what it's like for you….right now. But you know you don't have to do this alone, right? You know I'm here….Rufus is here." He skimmed a stray piece of hair behind her ear, continuing his hand down the side of her face, to lightly circle his thumb across her cheek—smiling, as she leaned into his hand.

"I could say the same to you."

"Me? I'm fine."

"Right. See, this is going to be another one of those times where I choose to ignore what you say."

She became quiet then, a faraway look in her eyes for a moment. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, wondering if he should leave her to her thoughts, or if he should try and get her to talk more.

Then suddenly, she turned and fixed a sad gaze on him. "I'm really sorry about Baumgardner."

His head swam a little, at her swift change of topic.

She looked down at her hands again, "He seemed like a good person."

He ducked his head, rubbing at the back of his neck, then gave a curt nod.

"He was, he was great."

"He thought highly of you too….you should know that."

Now it was Wyatt's turn to study his fingernails. He took a breath, then raised his head, catching her gaze with his own.

"What happened?"

"Flynn's goon—they exchanged fire in this alley—he was protecting us, Rufus and me….and his gun….jammed….or something."

"Jammed?"

"He was carrying a 1927 gun. He….followed the rules, they told him not to bring anything modern back with him…."

He hung his head again, whispering, "I guess that's just one more buddy I've left behind, right?"

"Don't you do that," she said, and he looked up quickly, at the sudden metal in her voice, "This is not your fault!"

He looked at her, eyes narrowing. "You know as well as I do that he was only in….what did you say, Paris, 1927?...because of me getting tossed into that black site cell…."

She drew back, at the mention of the cell. Collecting herself quickly, she then shook her head, fixing him with a hard stare, a look he wasn't sure he had ever seen on her before….at least, not directed at him.

"No Wyatt, Baumgardner was killed because of Flynn….because of his goons….they are the ones responsible….for all of this."

He nodded slowly. He did hear her point….and he promised himself that Flynn was going to pay.

"Shit, Bam was right….this whole thing really is fubar…." He hadn't really realized he'd said it out loud.

Lucy looked at him, curiously, "What is?"

He snorted softly. "This _whole_ thing….me, going back to try and change history; the Rittenhouse….coup; how we're suddenly all fugitives….well I am, at least."

"I guess I hadn't really thought about that," she said.

"Hadn't thought about what?"

"You….being a fugitive."

Now he gave a full chuckle. "Well….better get used to it there Luce….pretty soon you're going to be one too," he shrugged, swinging his arm around her shoulders and drawing her against him. She tucked her head against his neck.

Giving her shoulders a quick squeeze, he continued, "Well, at least until we take out Rittenhouse…."

She smiled then, but he could tell her heart wasn't in it. He knew he was right, when the smile faded quickly. She straightened up slightly; he missed the warmth of her against him.

He watched as she chewed her lower lip, looking somewhere in the distance, then focused back on him. "Tell me about the prison, the black site, where they took you."

He leaned back, pulling his arm off her shoulder, uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. Shrugging, he quipped "It wasn't so bad….whole lot more spacious than the Lifeboat."

He was surprised to see her suddenly become emotional, to see tears at the corners of her eyes.

"Did they hurt you? Was it…..." she broke off, seeming unable to put any additional concerns into words.

Now he understood the reason for her question—that she wasn't actually asking about the black site facility, but needed to reassure herself about _him_ ….and that was something he couldn't deny her. "I'm okay. It wasn't bad—honest. I've been plenty of worse places. It was fine—I'm good."

"I want to know," she said so softly, he almost didn't hear her. "I want to know the truth."

He sighed, but supposed she deserved that….she deserved the truth, and so much more. "The thing is….I….I felt like it was right….that it was what I deserved."

She looked at him with wide eyes, "How….how can you even suggest that?"

"I went back in time _trying_ to change history….we know how dangerous that is—"

"You saved two women."

"Yeah…but I could have caused _scores_ of other deaths, or disappearances. Actually, who knows, maybe I did? And there's no way we would ever know for sure…."

He watched her, out of the corner of his eyes, shake her head slowly.

"Lucy…. _you_ could have been disappeared. And I never would have….never _could_ have forgiven myself for that."

She nodded her head, slightly, then grabbed his hand in hers. "But that didn't—"

He cut her off. "I never should have gone….never should have tried it. I mean….there's a reason we try to protect history, right? There's a reason we can't let Lincoln live, there's a reason we couldn't kill VonBraun….because we can't risk our present. And I'm sorry—that I went against our team mission; that I talked Rufus into helping me…. I feel like I need to apologise to the entire freakin' planet. But most of all, I know I need to apologise to you. I'm sorry—that I did it; that I left you….and especially about the way I told you—for what I said."

"Wyatt…."

"No, just….let me finish. When….when you said you were coming with me….that just floored me. There I was talking about changing history….. and you didn't even ask another question, just said you were coming with me. You didn't worry at all about yourself, hell-you didn't even worry about the timeline….you were just thinking about me, what I needed."

He looked toward the floor, then at her hand, now holding his. He couldn't quite bring himself to meet her eyes. "There haven't been many people in my life that would do something like that for me, Luce….hardly any."

"We're teammates, right? That's how this works."

He huffed sharply at that. "I think that offer went a little beyond the call of duty." Then he shrugged, "What Rufus did, what you were willing to do...I'm grateful for that….and I'm sorry I ever put you in that position."

She shushed him, and gave a quick shake of her head. "You don't have to apologise. I mean….I can't know exactly how you feel….but I can understand. I can understand why you had to try. I would try anything to get my sister back."

He gave her hand a quick squeeze and quirked his lips. "Still….I must have upset you….to leave you like that, after saying it would be worth it, no matter what…. I don't know why I told you….it just felt like….I had to tell you, you know? Something like that, I couldn't not tell you….but I should have found a better way to do it."

She nodded at him slightly. "It was okay."

He sniffed, finally allowing himself to look directly in her eyes. "Not sure I believe that it was _okay_."

"Well, maybe it wasn't okay _then_ , but it is now. Even if I was upset then, like I said, I understand. It would have destroyed you, not to try….you would have always wondered….so you have nothing to be sorry for. And, as far as the words you actually said….I think I can forgive you for not being at your most eloquent, in that moment."

He felt tears then, stinging his eyes. "You….you're…..amazing….there are no other words."

She chuckled at that, "Somebody in this warehouse is certainly over-tired and feeling emotional."

"No, really. I messed around with the timeline, with our reality, and told you it would be worth it….in the middle of the night, no less….and here you are….offering understanding...and forgiveness." He sighed, running his hands through his hair, "And it's not just with this….it's like you're my personal source for absolution….. Even when there are all these awful things that have happened, that I'm responsible for…."

"Wyatt….you can't do this….you can't blame yourself for these things that were totally out of your control….you have to forgive…."

"What? Forgive myself? I….I don't know if I can. I don't know if I have enough forgiveness in me for that." He smiled at her. "You do it so easily, so effortlessly—giving forgiveness. I'm envious. I want to….I want to be able to forgive myself….I just don't even know where to begin. You don't know, don't know half of what I 've experienced, what I've done."

"Maybe you're right," she said again, softly, placing a hand on his arm. "Maybe I do have a lot of forgiveness….for you, especially….but it's because you deserve it. I want….I mean….I hope you can learn to forgive yourself."

He shook his head at her, studying the ground.

"And, if you don't think you have enough forgiveness in you to forgive _yourself_ ," she squeezed his hand, "Well-you can always borrow some of mine."

He smiled again, and was surprised to feel the smile widen….not a smirk, but a real smile. "I'll try Luce, I promise." And he was shocked to realize that he actually meant it.

A shrill binging from Lucy's phone broke the moment. She pulled it out of the coat still sitting beside her, and glanced at the screen, a quizzical look forming on her face.

"It's Mason Industries," she said.

"Flynn jump?"

"No….I mean they haven't said that….they just say I have to come in. I'll check in with Jiya." He watched as she sent her message, and a quick bing of a response followed almost immediately. Lucy looked up at him again. "No—no jump. Jiya says she doesn't know why they're calling me in."

"I guess you should go?"

"Yeah…." She put the phone back in her coat, but instead of standing, remained sitting on the pallets. She grabbed his hand again. "What about you?"

He shrugged.

"You look exhausted. When did you last sleep?"

"What day is it?"

She chuckled….then, "Actually….I….I'm not sure."

They both laughed.

He flashed her his best smirk. "We sure are a sorry pair."

"Um-hm," she agreed. "But that doesn't change the fact that you do need to sleep."

"I know….I will, when you go to MI." He watched then, as she seemed to be scanning the warehouse, a frown forming on her face.

"But you can't sleep here…."

"It'll be fine."

"No—I mean, I know you can't go to your apartment….but….maybe you can go to my mom's place…..I can come up with some sort of story for her, and you'd be able to sleep comfortably there."

He smiled, "Thanks for that, but you know I can't. I'll be okay here…."

"But you need to sleep, there's nothing remotely cozy about this place."

"It'll be okay….I've slept in far worse places, believe me." He was surprised to see her eyes suddenly fill with tears.

"Luce—what is it?"

"It's just that…." She trailed off, the raw emotion in her voice palpable. "Wyatt…..you say you've been in worse places than that cell, that you've slept in worse places than this warehouse," her voice was quivering, and he put his hand on her upper arm, trying to calm her tremor. "I….it hurts me to think about some of the horrible things you've seen, you've experienced. But….even more, it hurts me that for you, even now, things are….just _not the worst_. I want things to be better for you, or maybe even _good_." Tears were streaming down her cheeks now. "You mean so much to me….you're always there for me—helping me through things, someone to lean on, giving me confidence. Someone who worries about me….and knows what I need, even when I don't recognize it myself. You deserve better….you deserve things to be good….or, if they can't be good, then at least okay."

His mind was swirling, processing her words. He swiped at a tear trailing a path toward her chin with his thumb, and then brought both his hands around, to hold her lightly at the shoulders, so that they were facing each other.

"I need you to hear this, okay? I mean really hear this. Things _are_ better….they're so much better now than they used to be….and so much of that is because of you. And I am so thankful for that….I….I don't even know how to put it into words….but you make things better for me Lucy, just being here, just being my friend….." he brought his forehead against hers. "You make things good."

His intent had been to calm her, to reassure her….to thank her. But if his words had had had any of those effects on her, he was completely unaware—because he found himself completely overcome by their unexpected effect on _him_. He was overcome by the emotion—the gratitude, the tenderness, the…..something else that seemed too big to name—that putting those thoughts into words had caused in him. And she was so close right now….. He pulled back slightly, so that their foreheads were no longer touching, and found himself looking right at her lips. In that moment, there was nothing that he wanted more…..perhaps nothing else that existed in the world…. He found himself so desperate for the connection, that he allowed himself to imagine—to imagine actually giving in to the urge to close the gap between them—to move forward and capture those lips with his…. But then, her lips were _there_ , on his….and he hadn't moved….or he had…. He wasn't sure—he wasn't sure of anything right now, except that it was happening...

Their kiss was slow, and gentle, almost tentative—but filled with an intoxicating mix of emotion and sensation …. The soft brush of her lips, the faint scent that he'd never been able to properly identify but was forever categorized in his brain as "Lucy", the silk of her hair against his skin…. He brought his hand up to whisper his thumb against the smoothness of her cheek as he deepened their connection, feeling the particles in him spin and spark until he recognized that bolt of energy….and until there was no room left in his brain for thinking with words.

He heard her gentle gasp as they slowly separated, allowing thought to return. This was everything that he wanted—he wasn't scared of this anymore….

Until their eyes met, and he realized what a colossally terrible idea this was—what the hell was he thinking? He was a fugitive, and they were on the edge of their most important mission, and….. _holy crap, what was he thinking_?

He pulled further back, and saw his own shock mirrored in her eyes. In what he presumed was the Universe mocking them, their usual synchronicity was on full display as they both said simultaneously:

"I'm sorry."

She gave a nervous giggle, and he couldn't help but smile slightly. "I guess….we're both a little….uh….tired"

"Yeah….both a little….uuhh….overwhelmed…..emotionally. It's been a crazy day."

He nodded rapidly, "Crazy day."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Still….I'm sorry."

"No—don't be sorry—I mean, you didn't do anything….I shouldn't have….well….started that kiss….not like that, at least, not _now_."

"No, but…." She paused, and gave him a quizzical look. "Wait, what? But I kissed _you_."

"What? I'm pretty sure I kissed you."

He saw the smile play at the corner of her lips briefly, before she ducked her head, suddenly finding a splinter of wood on the pallet beside her too fascinating to rip her gaze from. As he watched her pick at the splinter, he chewed at the inside of his cheek for several heart beats. _Well Logan, what now? What was going through her mind?_ After what seemed an eternity, she pulled her gaze from the splinter, and their eyes finally met.

And she started to giggle. She clapped her hand over her mouth in surprise—but that seemed to only make things worse, as the lilting giggle turned into a guffaw. And now he was starting to laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside—and _holy heck, what was going on here with them_?

Once his laughter subsided, he rubbed at the back of his neck. "Well….okay. Ummmmm…..so….yeah. A crazy day."

"Crazy," she echoed.

There was another bing, as her phone sprang to life again, their moment….whatever it was….seemingly on hold. He looked at her questioningly, as she once again pulled out her phone and checked the screen.

"Rufus," she said, answering his unvoiced question. Says they're waiting for me at Mason….and apparently everyone seems jumpy….his words."

"Okay," he said, slowly rising to his feet beside her. "So….I guess….do you have to go?"

"Yeah…."

She looked lost in thought for a moment, chewing on her lower lip. Finally, she spoke: "I don't want to jump….not without you."

"It'll be okay. You heard Rufus….it's not a jump, it's more of a….a bounce."

"Fine, I don't want to bounce without you."

He smiled at that. "I don't want you to either…..but we have to. It'll be okay, you'll….bounce….and come right back here and pick me up….and then we'll go stop whatever new nefarious plan Flynn has dreamed up….and then….well then we take back our present, and our future." He grinned then, "Just another day at the office, right?"

She dropped her head, and he tentatively touched her elbow

"Luce…." He questioned.

She nodded slowly, then raised her head to meet his gaze. "Okay."

He smirked at her, "Just don't go bouncing on top of my Great-Great-Great Grandfather's cabin, or anything like that."

"Wyatt! Don't even….you seriously did not just say that."

"Sorry….sorry." He was still smiling, but then became more serious, when he saw her face change, become strained.

"We're going to be okay….I mean it."

"Okay?" She smiled.

"I think maybe more than okay."

Her smile turned shy

With a suddenness that surprised him, a personal truth emerged from deep inside him in that moment, shaking away the shadows and cobwebs that had covered his soul for so very long….Lucy. _This_ ….what he and Lucy had….this was what he wanted, this was what he needed. And if this was his new truth….then he needed to start by being totally honest with had to tell her, had to tell her _now_. Before things moved any further, before it became even harder…. Not allowing himself time to think, he took a breath, and dove in.

"Be….before you go…..we need to talk."

A brief flash of surprise crossed her face, followed by another shy smile. "We will, I promise. But not right now, not when we're both tired and emotional—and not when we have to focus on the mission…."

He realized that she was probably imagining a completely different conversation….not that he could blame her….how could she ever anticipate what he was about to say? "No….that's not really what I meant."

He watched as her eyebrows drew downward in confusion.

"I mean...we should talk….about lots of stuff….but there's something else, something I need to tell you first….something I need to tell you about _me_ …..about who I am."

He paused, _was it too late to back out of this?_ But she gazed at him with such kindness in her eyes….like she could forgive….

"I should have told you about this so long ago….but I was….I don't know, scared, about what you would think…..but I need to tell you…."

Her phone buzzed again.

He let out a huff of pent-up emotion. "Rufus again?"

"No….it's Jiya….she's freaking out….Agent Neville is really intense….wants to know when I'm going to get there, they're waiting for me."

"But Flynn hasn't jumped?"

"No….at least she doesn't say….I should go….I need to get ready, change my clothes…."

"Just let me…."

The phone buzzed again. "Rufus," she muttered. "He's freaking out because Jiya is freaking out."

She took his hand. "Whatever you have to tell me—first off….you don't need to be scared about what I'll think, I promise, and second…." She glanced down at her phone that was binging again, "….Can it keep, just until after the mission, until after we do this thing?"

Oh….if only it were that simple. _If he stopped now…..he might never get started again…._ And her phone continued buzzing, creating ambiance for his sudden new darker thoughts. She had only just found out about her biological father, must only just be beginning to process what this all meant. So what would telling her now accomplish? Nothing. It might ease his conscience, but it would do nothing but add to her recent and still-raw pain. After the mission….when it no longer mattered….then he would tell her….then everything would be good.

He breathed in, and released it slowly, forcing himself to smile. "Yeah, it'll keep….of course. It's no big deal anyway," he said, mostly trying to convince himself.

She nodded at him.

"Okay—you should go. And I know you know this….but if this Neville guy is such a jerk….it just means he doesn't have any confidence in his authority….that he's not as competent as he likes to pretend he is. Honestly, it just means at some level, he's scared of you….don't give him more power than he deserves."

She smiled and said softly, "I know."

He nodded, of course she did. "Okay—just make sure you tell Rufus and Jiya too."

She nodded.

"Ah," he rubbed his hand across his face. Those Rittenhouse dicks will be sorry they ever….well….did whatever the heck it is that they did….that they do….that they want to do…."

He glanced at her face again, to see that she was obviously trying to hold back a laugh. Within seconds, she was unsuccessful, as a stream of giggles broke free, the sound reverberating and dancing through the empty warehouse. And _that_ was something he could never compete against….because now he was smiling too, on the edge of chuckling himself, his previous darker thoughts forgotten.

Her giggling somewhat under control, he saw that raised eyebrow of hers, again.

"Well, you know what I mean. They'll be sorry. You know why?" He turned, to face her more directly then, and jerked his chin toward her. "''Cause you got this, Baby-doll." _Stupid! What was he doing, reminding her about that_ other _kiss right now….that's the last thing he should be reminding her about….what was wrong with him? How tired was he?_

But, if she read anything into the comment, she didn't let on. She beamed at him. "No, she stated. _We_ got this….sweetheart."

 _Thank God for her._ And he laughed in return.

Becoming serious again, he offered her his hand, pulling her to her feet when she accepted. Their eyes met, and he felt that same warmth, deep inside, that he always felt, when their eyes met….except there was something new there, as well.

He gave her a lop-sided grin. "Just think, next time I see you, you're going to be a badass counter-government agent." He regretted the quip, as he saw her expression fall. "Hey—"

She waved away his concern. "I'm scared, Wyatt," she nearly whispered, "I don't know if I can do this."

"Don't know if you can do this? The girl that forced the landing of the Hindenburg, saved the men on the moon, and rescued me from Flynn and his goons while covered in polyester?" He added an unspoken thought, _and the woman who stood up to Flynn to save her ancestor_. He smirked at her again, "For you? This is going to be a piece of cake."

She looked at him, almost shyly. "I wish I had your confidence."

He desperately needed to touch her, to hold her against him, to _feel_ that she was safe, that she was okay….to feel that _he_ was okay…..but it would only confuse things. Now was not the time for risks….better to keep things safe….. So he settled for nudging her shoulder with his, his hands shoved once again in his pockets, to keep them from seeking her out.

"I am _insanely_ confident that you've got this….in fact, I have enough confidence for both of us. So….you can borrow some, if you like."

He was rewarded with a smile from her as she slowly nodded. "Okay."

The phone buzzed. "You better go, before I decide to smash your phone into a billion pieces."

"Problem is….that's actually a pretty tempting offer, right now

He felt the grin spreading across his face. This shoulder nudge thing wasn't doing it for him. He needed to touch her, to be close to her….but he _couldn't_ , it was all way too complicated….to dangerous, right now. But then she looked at him again, with that trust, that caring….

 _Screw it_ and he pulled her into a loose embrace, kissing top of her head, and feeling her body and soul melt into his.

"Luce, it's all going to be okay."

* * *

 _A/N_

 _1._ _So….kissing scenes are hard to write! Major kudos to all of you authors who manage those scenes...and the M-rated ones….so well!_

 _2._ _Recognizing on my re-read that Wyatt probably verged pretty close to OOC on this one, expressing all those feelings to Lucy….but I'm going to stick with Lucy's explanation—he's exhausted and emotional! And he always does seem to open up to her more than you might expect._

 _3._ _Lucy's off-hand comment about needing to change her clothes is a lead in to my next chapter, during which- in addition to furthering my actual plot-I will attempt to explain the crazy number of present-day wardrobe changes for our heroes in episodes 15 and 16. Especially the coats. I mean, seriously, you're fugitives from the government….why do you all have so many different coats? And yes, I did re-watch the episodes just for the purpose of tracking the wardrobe changes in an attempt to figure out the episode 16 timeline….because that's how much of a geek I am._

 _4._ _I dare you to now go and view the scene in ep.15 where Agent Neville is chiding Lucy for being late without any smirking!_

 _5._ _Review, s'il vous plait! It puts such a huge smile on my face whenever I see one!_


	18. Chapter 18

_First of all guys….as I'm sure you're all aware….we have a season 2 start date! Yeeeeaaaahhhh /does best Kermit the Frog impression/_

 _Have to admit, it's sooner than I expected. And, since my original plan was to have this story *and* two other stories I'm working on posted before the premiere date….I now feel I'm under quite a bit of writing pressure! Not gonna lie….probably won't all happen before then!_

 _Sorry for the crazy posting delay on this thing, but you know how real life can go. This chapter and the next were really kind of bears to write too….I had written several "missing scenes" that came easily, but then found it really difficult to tie them all together. Thanks for all your patience in sticking with me on this! And, so you know, we are nearing the home stretch of this thing. I can now say pretty confidently that this will be 25 chapters in length. Hope you enjoy from here!_

* * *

 _From Chapter 17:_

 _She looked at him, almost shyly. "I wish I had your confidence."_

 _He desperately needed to touch her, to hold her against him, to feel that she was safe, that she was okay….to feel that he was okay…..but it would only confuse things. Now was not the time for risks….better to keep things safe….. So he settled for nudging her shoulder with his, his hands shoved once again in his pockets, to keep them from seeking her out._

 _"_ _I am insanely confident that you've got this….in fact, I have enough confidence for both of us. So….you can borrow some, if you like."_

 _He was rewarded with a smile from her as she slowly nodded. "Okay."_

 _The phone buzzed. "You better go, before I decide to smash your phone into a billion pieces."_

 _"_ _Problem is….that's actually a pretty tempting offer, right now_

 _He felt the grin spreading across his face. This shoulder nudge thing wasn't doing it for him. He needed to touch her, to be close to her….but he couldn't, it was all way too complicated….to dangerous, right now. But then she looked at him again, with that trust, that caring…._

 _Screw it and he pulled her into a loose embrace, kissing top of her head, and feeling her body and soul melt into his._

 _"_ _Luce, it's all going to be okay."_

* * *

Chapter 18

A few minutes later, Wyatt found himself trying to get comfortable, stretching out on those same wooden pallets Lucy had previously claimed as her seat. She had been wrong, he mused, when she stated there was nothing remotely cozy about the place—because she had left her tan overcoat behind….forgotten in her rush to get to Mason Industries. He pulled the coat, now his make-shift blanket, up over his shoulders, and then pillowed his head on his arms. Breathing in the scent of _her_ that permeated the coat, he drifted off. Much faster than he ever would have imagined. The feel of Lucy's lips on his still filling his mind.

* * *

Wyatt shook his head, clearing the memories of that warehouse from his mind as he again looked out the window at the street outside. That warehouse….it had become a memory he had cherished in the following weeks. A memory that never failed to fill him with warmth, to push away the darkness, and to chase the worst parts of him back into the furthest recesses of his mind. It was a memory that he knew, as he pulled his gaze from the window to again look at his bedroom door, had just been supplanted by a new one. However—his thoughts continued, as he traced the trail of a rain drop across the pane of glass that separated him from the storm outside—the warehouse memory, and he supposed, this memory as well, would also be forever tinged with regret. Regret that he hadn't told her everything, that he hadn't come clean in that warehouse….that he hadn't started speaking his confession even a minute earlier, so that it would have been out in the open before she was forced to return to MI…. And ever since then….even though he knew he had to tell her, he had kept pushing it back, kept convincing himself it wasn't the right time, that he would tell her later.

There had also been the regret that he hadn't managed to convince himself to act on those feelings again….before tonight, of course. Before tonight he'd always found reasons, excuses, to push back the promised possibilities. A new realization shoved its way to the front of his consciousness, just as a gust of wind howled from the alleyway beside his building. His reasons for pushing back the possibilities had been exactly the same as his reasons for not telling Lucy everything about his Rittenhouse situation. And what did that mean? And did it even matter anymore?

Because now those possibilities had indeed arrived….

Wyatt pushed himself back from the window. Spinning around he started marching toward the bedroom. He was going to tell her _now_. No more waiting….no more excuses….no more _reasons_!

Half way across the living room floor now, he could clearly hear her soft breathing, on the other side of that door. She sounded peaceful, calm….as though perhaps even the frequent and recurrent nightmares she had recently admitted to him had chosen to leave her alone this night.

He was almost to the door now.

He was done with hiding.

He was done with keeping things—with keeping _anything_ —from her.

He was ready for this.

He reached for the doorknob; he was going to finally make this right.

He was going to break the cycle of dishonesty.

He was….

He was a total idiot and jackass….and had truly lost his mind, this time.

He backed slowly away from the door, suddenly terrified that he might disturb her peaceful slumber. This was _Lucy_. His team mate, his best friend….the woman he was finally allowing himself to acknowledge that he loved…. What exactly was his plan? To just march in there, shake her awake, and declare his Rittenhouse deception? Just what was he expecting would happen after that? He paused now, just a few feet from where he had begun, and forced himself to turn away from the bedroom door and back toward the window.

Honesty was certainly the best policy….but maybe not in the wee hours of the morning just after they had finally…. He shook his head. But what was he going to do? When would it be right to tell her? Tomorrow morning? The next day? The next week? And how had he been so weak to let things happen this way, in this order? _How had he lost control?_

Even as the thought formed in his mind, he realized it was a ridiculous one. When had he ever had control of this situation in the first place?

He sighed softly, and returned to his sentry position at the window. He would never—could never—regret what had just happened. His only regret was that things were going to get…..messy. His own words echoed in his mind, mocking him—didn't things _always_ get messy, when it came to him? He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. This wasn't the way things were supposed to happen. Lucy's plan had _worked_ , and they were supposed to have defeated Rittenhouse. Together, his team was supposed to have ridded the world of their evil, and ridded him of his captors. With Rittenhouse gone, he could have told her, could have told her everything….and he was nearly certain she would have forgiven him—and then they would have explored the possibilities with a clean slate….

Except of course they weren't gone. He shouldn't have hoped. He should have known better….he didn't deserve hope.

* * *

His sleep on those wooden pallets, wrapped in Lucy's coat, had been peaceful—but short. He had woken suddenly to the chiming of the motion detectors outside the warehouse door. He jumped to his feet, checking the monitors on the table—to see that it was only Agent Christopher, making her return. He sighed. Good thing his time in the military meant that he had learned how to make the best of a cat nap….it wasn't likely he'd be sleeping again anytime soon. He stepped back from the monitors, out from under the overhang of the walkway, to greet Christopher as she came through the door.

She nodded at him, as she came down the stairs, carrying a large duffle bag and a bag of takeout burgers. She dropped the duffle at the foot of the stairs, and offered him the takeout bag. He reached for it quickly.

"Thank you for that," he said.

She eyed him for a moment. "Lucy gone back to Mason Industries?"

He nodded, "But last I heard, they weren't jumping yet."

She picked up the duffle again, and moved toward the centre of the warehouse space. She glanced back at him as he followed. "I hope you're not waiting to tear into those burgers on my account, Master Sergeant. Unlike you, I have eaten—a couple of times in fact—in the last twenty-four hours.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and followed her implied command.

She swung the duffle bag on top of the pallets that he had been sleeping on moments earlier.

"What's in the bag?" he asked.

She smiled. "I had Michelle raid your apartment."

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I pocketed the key during your arrest when they cleared your locker at Mason's. Afraid I wasn't able to grab your cell phone."

"But, Michelle?"

She shrugged, "I figured it was less conspicuous than me going myself….and besides, she loved every minute of it, her first opportunity to play the spy, she told me."

He chuckled at that.

Christopher unzipped the bag. Clothes and personal items, mostly….and this," she held out a white envelope.

He took it, looking at her curiously.

"Five hundred dollars in cash."

"Pretty sure that wasn't lying around my apartment."

She smiled tightly. "No, but just consider the whole thing," she motioned between the envelope and the duffle bag, "My care package for fugitives….or at least for fugitives that I've grown fond of."

He laughed again, "Thank you," he grew serious again, "But don't you mean fugitives that you're royally pissed at?"

"Yes," she replied, "But….."

"What is it?"

"I've been thinking. If you hadn't lost your mind and stolen a time machine….you would have been there, when the NSA agent came to replace me, courtesy of Rittenhouse."

He nodded, unsure of what to expect next.

"And, if you had been there, Rittenhouse would have certainly also had the NSA replace _you_ …..they would have put in their own asset. And then you would have probably been immediately redeployed. Probably on the other side of the country—hell, the other side of the world—and then where would we be?" She took a step closer to him, paused, and then nodded. "So, maybe I'm still pissed a little….but consider me pissed and _grateful_ , about the way things turned out."

He nodded at her. "I'm grateful, too." Because he was. Because as she'd been speaking he realized she was absolutely right….about a part of it, anyway. Rittenhouse _did_ insist on having their own asset on these missions. So when the NSA-Rittenhouse agent had replaced Christopher, if he _had_ been there….well then they wouldn't have needed to replace him at all….since he was already their asset. He grimaced slightly to himself; Ben would have made sure of that they didn't change assets. And then….if they hadn't replaced him? Well, then Christopher would have figured it all out….and then _Lucy_ would have….and then what would he have done? How could he have helped them?

But he couldn't dwell on that now, not when they were so close to finishing this... He tore into the next burger in the bag. _Just be thankful you get the second chance, Logan_.

Fifteen minutes later he had eaten, changed, and cleaned up as best he could. He exited the warehouse washroom to find Agent Christopher had completely cleared out a corner of the floor space, and was setting up lights that looked very similar to the Lifeboat beacons from Mason Industries.

"That the coordinates that Rufus has?"

She nodded. "With any luck, they land right here. You know, rather than on top of us. Even have a step ladder they can use to get out."

"Right."

She turned to face him. "You're looking more like yourself."

He didn't acknowledge the comment, instead began pacing along the edge of the landing area.

"I don't like not knowing what's going on….this waiting is driving me crazy….I need to be there, or I need them to be here…."

"And sounding more like yourself too."

He chose to ignore _that_ comment, but did momentarily stop his pacing. "Just wish we had some way to know what was happening."

She nodded at him, a serious expression now across her features. "We'll know soon enough."

As if on cue, a preternatural rush of wind suddenly buffeted Wyatt's face, as a sonic boom signaled that the Lifeboat had arrived. He drew his weapon and rushed toward the Lifeboat, shoving Christopher's stairs in place, and racing up to greet his team. As the hatch slid open, the sight inside the Lifeboat caused a wave of emotion to sweep through him. His brain identified a single over-riding thought— _his heart was singing_. And that was pretty much the most ridiculous thought he'd ever had about his inner feelings….but there it was. Because his team had done it—they had bested Rittenhouse. Rufus had knocked out a Sergeant Major, and Lucy was holding his unconscious form at gun point, whilst holding him upright with her heels. And he suddenly realized that he needed to chase that image from his brain right now, if he were ever going to focus on the mission at hand.

Once Sergeant Major what's-his-name had been removed from _his_ Lifeboat, Wyatt rejoined his team with Christopher. As he walked back toward his team, his mind honed in on Lucy's steadily rising pitch, even before it interpreted her words. She was starting to panic. Glancing toward Rufus, he realized that both of his team members seemed to be experiencing a growing panic, as the reality of what they had just accomplished set in. Luckily, like picking a lock or controlling a hand-to-hand combat situation….this was something he was good at. This was where he could help. He knew he could keep his team calm, keep them confident, and keep them focused on the mission.

And that first mission? That was clear. They had to take the opportunity to get Amy back….or they might not get another chance. He focused on Lucy's face, watching as confusion turn to realization and then elation as she understood what he was proposing. Rufus was on board—Wyatt never had any doubt about that. He had also expected Christopher's reservations—calling the plan reckless—but she didn't really have a say in the matter, did she? And as he voiced that thought….his reward was the look of joy, of pride, of appreciation, and of _trust_ on Lucy's face. And when was the last time anyone had looked at him like that? When was the last time anyone had thought of him in that way? It nearly took his breath away. An instant later, his breath really was taken away, when she launched herself toward him and wrapped him in a crushing embrace—which he should have expected, but truly wasn't ready for, since who knew where they were at in terms of showing physical affection after that kiss they'd both fallen over themselves to apologise for?

But none of that mattered, really.

Nothing mattered, except the way she was feeling, and knowing he had had a small role in that. In that moment he reaffirmed his commitment to protect his team, and to do everything in his power to keep Lucy feeling the way she was feeling right now, forever.

Except it turned out that he couldn't manage _that_ clearly unattainable commitment for more than thirty seconds. Flynn had jumped. And no matter how badly he wanted to help Lucy get her sister back….the Flynn mission had to take priority. And Lucy knew exactly what that might mean. Wyatt felt a flash of despondency, knowing that he had hurt her, as he turned the mission conversation from Amy back to Flynn. And that despondency threatened to bring all those _other_ old feelings back. He could practically _feel_ those darker compartments that he'd thought he'd managed to tame start to open up again….but then she put her hand on his arm.

"Wyatt," she said simply, "I understand."

He closed his eyes, trying to focus his emotions again, to control the tide. He glanced across the warehouse where Rufus was on the cell phone, and Christopher was checking her surveillance system again. "You shouldn't have to."

"What?"

"You shouldn't have to understand….you shouldn't be put in a position of having to choose saving the world over saving your sister."

"Well," she ran her hand down his arm and clasped his hand lightly in hers, "Sometimes saving the world just doesn't seem like enough, does it?"

He smiled tightly, at that. "No. But after what I tried to do to save—"

She cut him off, "—it's in the past….and it's within our lifetimes in the past, so we don't even have to feel tempted to change it, because we can't. Besides," she released his hand, and he was amazed at the hollow feeling he was left with, like a part of him had gone missing, "I still have faith that we can save Amy—after we take care of Flynn, and Rittenhouse."

"Right, one problem at a time."

"Um-hm." She smiled softly at him, as Rufus rejoined them at the Lifeboat.

"So," he said, tossing the cell phone he'd been using onto a nearby table, "When are we headed?"

Lucy piped up, "March 13, 1931."

"So...we're all good with that?" Rufus asked, and Wyatt didn't miss the concern in his eye, as he glanced at Lucy.

She nodded her head. "We're good. It's all good. Well—except for our 1962 wardrobe, which is _not_ good—"

"Ah," Wyatt cut in, "Nobody's gonna notice. I bet we don't even stand out at all."

She shook her head at him, looking stern, but he felt relief as he realized that a small smile still played at her lips.

Wyatt turned and started walking in the other direction, pretending to check on the charge level of the Lifeboat, pretending that he had some knowledge of such things….because he needed a moment….just to gather his thoughts.

This was it.

On this mission they would stop Flynn….and then stop Rittenhouse. _And_ , his inner voice added, _you'll make sure that Lucy gets her chance—that she`ll get Amy back_. Because Lucy was the one who always thought about everyone else before herself….she was the one who instinctually seemed to know what everyone else needed….and it was about time that she got Amy….that she got happiness….that she got what she deserved.

* * *

What followed was a whirlwind—a whirlwind of sight and sound and time and thought….as the Time Team raced to stop Flynn and Capone. Wyatt worked to keep his mind on the present….or rather the past….or rather the past that was their current present. He forced himself to keep his mind away from those possibilities of the nebulous future….those possibilities of Lucy….

But even still, in the handful of quiet seconds that they managed that day….his mind always returned to her. To her….and to her selflessness, and to her strength, and….to the warehouse.

That warehouse.

He had kissed her, without any audience or pretense. Or, perhaps, as she claimed, she had kissed _him_ ….without pretense or audience. And he couldn't decide which of those two possibilities was more terrifying….or more exhilarating. Usually, it was at that point in his swirling cycle of Lucy thoughts that he would catch her glancing at him from the corner of his eye….or he would hear a certain _tone_ in her voice when she spoke to him….and he would start to think that maybe….just maybe…. But then it would be gone, in a heartbeat, and he was left to wonder if it was only his imagination. And each time then he would shake his head, trying to clear his thoughts. After all, it was probably nothing. Because she had _said_ it was nothing. She had _said_ that their kiss was only because she was tired, she was emotional…. She said that was the only reason why it had happened….so why turn himself in knots over it?

But a small hopeful voice in the back corner of his brain still whispered: _He had said the same thing to her….and that was a pack of lies._ So where did that leave them?

It left them approaching Capone's own brother for help….that was where it left them. Because he had to keep his mind on the mission. If he let himself think of anything else….he wouldn't be of any help to his team. And someone might get hurt.

The Capone mission. It was all Lucy, of course. Even with Ness gone, Lucy didn't falter, she never gave in. She had found another way. Going to Hart had been her idea, but it had been even more than that. Because it had been Lucy who had convinced Hart to help them. Lucy who had been able to appeal to his better graces. But really….it had been that way for so long, hadn't it? It was _Lucy_ that could save them all, Lucy that could make the difference….and she didn't even seem aware. He was so proud of her….of his whole team….but the way she was able to do this job….without any training in this kind of work, and with the heartache of her sister and the perpetual shadow of Rittenhouse now made solid in the form of her biological father…. He marveled at her. And he would protect her, and help her….in any way he could. Not because it was he was under orders to do so….but because he could no longer imagine being anywhere else….or _doing_ anything else with his life.

But things don't always go to plan….and this mission had been a good reminder to him of that fact. A good reminder of the true stakes at hand. Because once they confronted Capone, Wyatt _had_ been focused on the mission; he _had_ been helping his team. And someone still got hurt.

Rufus.

* * *

Wyatt hadn't thought so much about higher powers and fate in his life as he had these past three days….but yet again, it seemed as though somehow someone or something had been looking out for them, looking out for the Time Team…. Rufus had gotten them back. Providence seemed to continue to smile on his team as Noah was able to patch Rufus up, and announced that the bullet had done no serious damage. And Wyatt knew he should be thankful for the doctor's help, and he tried to be thankful….but…. _man_ , the guy was an asshole. Wyatt started pacing the edge of the landing area. Even though he knew well enough that he'd exchanged fewer than ten words with the man, and he was certainly not in that habit of labeling people assholes until he'd at least spoken _twenty_ words to them….but still…. What did other-Lucy ever see in the guy in the first place? What had other-Lucy been thinking? And who did Noah think he was—ordering around Lucy like he owned her? Needed someone to teach him about manners, about how to treat a lady—

"Uh, Wyatt?"

"What?" he nearly snapped, jerked out of his spiraling thoughts by Rufus' soft question.

"Nothin'….other than you practically pacing a hole in the floor. Just seemed you were getting maybe a little….heated? Maybe save that for Flynn and Rittenhouse, hey?"

He scrubbed his hand across his face. "Yeah, sorry. I was just….thinking."

"Uh-huh," Rufus nodded, "Sure." He opened his mouth about to say something, then closed it again.

"Go on then," he gave his friend a tight grin, "Say what's on your mind. You just got shot by Al Capone….I'd say you earned it."

Rufus nodded up at him slowly. "It's just that I'm thinking maybe there's another reason why the mere sight of Dr. Noah seems to make you see red….or maybe even green….."

He trailed off as there was a ruckus at the back door of the warehouse. Wyatt spun around to see two familiar forms on the surveillance camera.

"Christopher and Jiya," he said, just as the two women came through the door.

Jiya raced down the stairs at the sight of Rufus on the table. She threw her arms around him, nearly pushing him _off_ the table with the velocity of her movements.

"Hey girl, easy….watch the stitches." Rufus grinned and gave a low chuckle, "Ow! It hurts when I laugh."

Wyatt grinned back, "Yeah, getting shot in the gut can do that." He turned toward Agent Christopher, pointing at the bag she was carrying. "What's with you and duffle bags these days?"

"Not mine this time," she replied, turning it sideways to reveal a sequined rainbow. "Jiya has me beat on this one. She managed to clear out the ladies locker room—got all her things _and_ Lucy's—all while making a break for it from the Rittenhouse security detail."

"That's my girl," Rufus quipped.

"Huh," Wyatt said, turning back to his friend. "Maybe it's Jiya who's the real badass, buddy."

At that moment Lucy re-entered the main room of the warehouse. Wyatt couldn't help the goofy grin that started spreading across his face as he met her eyes….and maybe, he didn't even want to.

All too soon though, his mind was forced back to the task at hand. Flynn had jumped. To 1954. The Rittenhouse summit. And then Rittenhouse was there, was on them, had found the warehouse….and his protectorate team suddenly had an extra member….and they were off again, hurtling through time…. A clear mission in mind.

This was it then—their chance to stop Flynn, and to find a way to stop Rittenhouse. And then he wouldn't have to worry about the lies—the past. Because it would all go away, wouldn't it? He would still tell her, of course….but it wouldn't matter anymore, not with Rittenhouse gone. She would forgive him, wouldn't she? And then he could be open….open to hope, open to possibilities….open to the future. And that was something worth fighting for.

* * *

 _A/N Okay-so I know not a whole lot actually *happened* in this chapter...but I needed to start revving up the angst again after the angst-pause needed for the warehouse kiss scene in the previous chapter! Next chapter will hopefully be posted soon. Please use the comment box to tell me what you think!_


	19. Chapter 19

_Saw my first TV ad for Season 2 last night! It was on the Global network, and had no new footage….but I still re-wound, and watched again!_

 _So, back to the story: First of all—thank you all so very much for your support of this little story! It`s officially hit 100 reviews!_

 _And, second of all—Oh my gosh you guys….my love of "missing scenes" has gotten out of control again. Who even knew there *were* that many missing scenes in episode 16….but I found them! Well, I wrote several missing scenes, and expanded one scene that was in the episode, but took on new significance, given the "twist" in my story. Are all these missing scenes important? Nope….just fun to write. So….because it got away from me ….I'm splitting one chapter into two *again*, just to make reading easier. Would call it chapter 19 and 19a, but the site won't do that….so I guess we'll just add one more chapter to the total! I'll post the second part of chapter 19, aka chapter 20, very soon. Enjoy!_

* * *

 _From Chapter 18:_

 _At that moment Lucy re-entered the main room of the warehouse. Wyatt couldn't help the goofy grin that started spreading across his face as he met her eyes….and maybe, he didn't even want to._

 _All too soon though, his mind was forced back to the task at hand. Flynn had jumped. To 1954. The Rittenhouse summit. And then Rittenhouse was there, was on them, had found the warehouse….and his protectorate team suddenly had an extra member….and they were off again, hurtling through time…. A clear mission in mind._

 _This was it then—their chance to stop Flynn, and to find a way to stop Rittenhouse. And then he wouldn't have to worry about the lies—the past. Because it would all go away, wouldn't it? He would still tell her, of course….but it wouldn't matter anymore, not with Rittenhouse gone. She would forgive him, wouldn't she? And then he could be open….open to hope, open to possibilities….open to the future. And that was something worth fighting for._

* * *

Chapter 19

"Okay you guys, go ahead, get Jiya back. I have to stay here."

 _What did she just say?_

"What are you talking about? What do you mean?" He knew she could read the confusion in his eyes….but what was she _thinking_? She couldn't…. and suddenly he understood, understood _exactly_ what she was thinking….and the confusion started turning quickly toward anger, because….how could she be so reckless? He pushed away the voice in the back of his head that whispered _because she learned from the best_.

"Lucy no….no way," he glanced toward Flynn, who was looking smug. And he knew he was no longer angry….just, afraid. Afraid for her...afraid for himself. He took a couple of steps closer to Lucy, lowering his voice, "Look, I already lost you once, I cannot lose you again."

"You've trusted me this long; I just need you to do it a little longer, okay?

But of course he would trust her for always—but not Flynn….never Flynn.

"If you hurt her..."

"What? You'll try and kill me again?"

 _Smug asshole wants to be that way? Well then he…_. But then his eyes took in Lucy's face again….and any thoughts of Flynn disappeared.

Rufus was telling her to be careful….was he going along with this? Then the pilot clapped him on the shoulder. _He was going along with this_. And he obviously expected Wyatt to follow….

Wyatt's stomach was roiling, and this time it had nothing to do with the Lifeboat. It was because he knew that he couldn't control this situation. He shook his head slightly at Lucy. _This couldn't be happening_. He knew he couldn't control this situation—but then, he also knew that it wasn't his situation to control. Slowly, an acceptance of things grew in his gut. Because he _did_ trust her. He had to trust her. He forced himself to turn away, to start moving toward the Lifeboat.

"It'll be okay," she said.

And it probably would be— _she_ probably would be okay. But what about him? There was nothing about him that felt okay right now.

Practically on auto-pilot, he walked toward Lifeboat. He wasn't ready—not yet. He turned back to look at her. A small wave. That was all it took, and that warmth—that happiness—filled him again, as he let his Lucy compartment open wide. But this time….it was tempered with a fear that he couldn't quite shake, that he couldn't quite control. _But he trusts her….he has to..._

There was something about this….something about traveling without her, leaving her behind…. He shoved that new thought away-because it wasn't the same, it was _not_ like before. But she was asking this of him….she was asking him to leave, to go without her….to leave her behind. But he trusts her….he has to.

He entered the Lifeboat in some kind of patchy fog, only catching snatches of light and sound. He only heard some of the usual ambient noise, and then was only partially aware that Rufus was speaking to him. Then, Rufus clapped him on the shoulder.

"Seriously man, you with me?"

He shook his head. "Yeah, yeah….I am….I mean…." He trailed off, a single, clear thought pushing its way through his otherwise scrambled mind.

"I mean….no….no. I'm not with you….I need to stay with Lucy." He felt a sense of urgency, almost a panic, rising in his chest….he couldn't do this….not again. "I can't…." How could he ever explain…? "I _won't_ just drive away. I won't leave her back here all alone…."

"What?" Rufus' voice floated toward him, as though from far away. Then the pilot turned around….and stared at him.

"Listen, you take Jiya back, get her to the hospital. I'll stay here….go back in the Mothership with Lucy and Flynn and Emma…."

"Wyatt? Wyatt….no." He saw Rufus bend over Jiya's still form in Lucy's chair, then turn back to the Lifeboat controls. "Wyatt, I _know_ you are worried, and I know _why_ you're worried, and I get it man, I get it. But I really _need_ you right now. Jiya needs you."

Wyatt turned back from the hatch of the Lifeboat, to stare at his friend.

"Look—I can't focus on my instruments unless I know someone, someone I _trust_ , is here, taking care of Jiya. And believe me; you _want_ me focusing on my instruments. This….this isn't just a walk in the park, you know?"

The reality of the situation came roaring back at Rufus' words. Wyatt shook his head quickly.

"Yeah, sorry….right. _After all, this was nothing like before_. "Don't worry, I got Jiya. You do what you need to do."

Rufus grinned, and clapped him on the shoulder one more time, before turning back to the controls. Wyatt heard his earnest, "It's gonna be okay." as he started flipping switches.

Wyatt gave one more nod, even knowing Rufus couldn't see it, then wordlessly began checking the restraints around Jiya's still form.

Because Rufus needed him right now….Jiya needed him right now…. This was where his team needed him. And Lucy…. He knew with heaviness in his gut that she didn't need him for this. _Maybe she didn't need him for anything?_

But at that moment the Lifeboat started travelling, and Wyatt forcibly pulled his mind back to the task at hand.

The Lifeboat came to a halt with a little less finesse than normal, he found himself thinking. A little more clanking and a whole lot more wobble.

"Rufus?" he asked, knowing he didn't need to say more.

"How's Jiya?" Rufus deflected.

Wyatt leaned forward and began undoing her restraints. "She's okay….the same, I mean." Rufus pushed him aside, as he turned in his chair and gathered her form in his arms.

"Watch you stitches there," he began, knowing it was pointless to continue.

"So….before I open this hatch…." he began, "Where did we land? What are we getting into here?"

"I landed back at the warehouse."

"The warehouse—as in the warehouse where Rittenhouse showed up and likely kidnapped or possibly arrested our boss, warehouse?"

Rufus shook his head slowly, "Yeah, I didn't know where else to….it's not an easy thing, to just plunk her down in the middle of the Bay Area, you know."

A soft voice floated from below Wyatt's arm, "What, you mean traveling through space time ain't like dusting crops?

Rufus let out a squeak that may or may not have been Jiya's name, as he rushed to kneel beside her, pushing Wyatt out of the way.

"You okay?" asked Wyatt, cautiously, trying to give them room in the cramped space.

"I….feel weird—"

"Shhhh, don't talk, don't talk," Rufus turned back to Wyatt, "What's the plan here?"

"Well," he turned back toward the hatch, hand hovering above the release, "I'm just going to slowly stick my head out…."

"Are you crazy?"

"Leading with my trusty 21st century weapon here," he dramatically patted his modern weapon.

"Is that the best idea?"

"You got any other ones?"

He watched as Rufus returned his attention to Jiya, smoothing her hair as her eyes were starting to close again.

"No," Rufus muttered.

Wyatt didn't wait for another word. Taking a breath, he released that hatch, and angled his weapon out of the porthole, his vision tracking across the open door to find…. Nothing. Or more precisely, no one. Just the empty, darkened warehouse….with Agent Christopher's motion monitors blinking quietly under the stairs.

"Wyatt?" Rufus whispered.

"Hang on," he said, pulling himself out of the Lifeboat, checking again, and confirming they really were alone.

He heard Rufus' voice from behind him. "Uh, Wyatt? Where….is everybody?"

Wyatt surveyed the empty warehouse again, aware that Rufus was now helping Jiya out of the Lifeboat behind him.

He turned to face his friends, and saw that Rufus had helped Jiya sit on the wooden pallets. She was still conscious….but he didn't like the pallor of her skin.

"There's nobody here," Rufus said.

Wyatt grimaced, now realizing there was panic in the coder's eyes. "Yeah, there's nobody here. And this is a problem?"

" _Why_ is nobody here?"

Wyatt started moving about the warehouse, gathering their things, shoving everything he could find into the two duffle bags. Rufus shut down the main electrical breaker and computer link on the Lifeboat, then moved to sit down on the pallets….and puled Jiya against him.

"Rittenhouse…..they should be here, waiting for us, but they're not," Rufus began, "That means, they're playing some sort of game….there's more at work here."

Wyatt pulled Jiya and Lucy's cell phones from the sequined bag and looked up at him.

"Agreed."

Rufus continued, "We know Rittenhouse….they're all bound up in the NSA, Homeland….they would have reported us….as traitors, terrorists even."

Wyatt glanced around the quiet space again, and shook his head. "I don't think so. Because then….then this place would definitely be swarming with cops and military…. 'Cause the broader government….well they wouldn't play games….I mean—not like this. If the government knew that we stole the time machine…." he shrugged, "They'd be all over this warehouse. So that means…."

"Rittenhouse hasn't told them they're misplaced the Lifeboat yet. Why not?"

"I don't know….Rittenhouse, they work from the shadows. Maybe they haven't told them, because it would be too conspicuous? I think….I think maybe when it comes to the Lifeboat, they want to be even more careful than usual….don't want to draw more attention…. They probably figured they'd take care of us on their own. I mean….they knew we'd have to come back some time. And I bet they were expecting the Mothership to return first, right?"

"Do you really believe that?" Rufus' voice was quiet and serious.

He shrugged. "I mean….maybe. Why?"

Rufus chewed at his lower lip. "Because, if that's true….we're not technically fugitives from the government. Well, _you_ are….but not Jiya and me. And that means…."

"You guys can go to the hospital." Wyatt said.

Jiya sighed dramatically, pulling Wyatt's attention to her. It was the first thing she'd said since exiting the Lifeboat.

"I'm not going to the hospital. I'm fine….and we have bigger worries. If Mason has the computers up again…."

"Then Rittenhouse will have detected us, before I shut the Lifeboat down….and they'll know that we're back." Rufus jumped to his feet. "And that means we gotta get out of here, right now."

"Rufus!" Wyatt shouted, seeing Jiya begin to jerk on the pallets.

"She's seizing again….. She needs help!"

Wyatt held up one of the cell phones. "Rufus…..am I calling an ambulance? Do we chance it?"

"Yes, I'm taking her; he scooped her up in his arms.

Wyatt started up the stairs, weapon in one hand, phone in another.

"Wait," he heard Rufus from behind him. "New plan. No ambulance, not to this warehouse. What if they bring the cops, and someone comes in and sees the Lifeboat…."

"Right," agreed Wyatt. He was already searching for a new number on the phone, as they made it out of the warehouse and sprinted down the alleyway beside it, until they reached the busier main road.

Strangely, the cabby had seemed only mildly surprised with the request to transport an unconscious woman to the hospital. Wyatt had handed Jiya's cell and some cash to Rufus as he lay Jiya across the backseat.

"You sure we're good?" Rufus asked, starting to get into the cab himself. "I mean….maybe the government's not looking for us, but…."

"First and foremost Rittenhouse will be looking for the Lifeboat, not Jiya….she'll be fine at the hospital."

"Thanks Wyatt," he said, "Now go get Lucy back."

Wyatt nodded, turned, and started jogging in the opposite direction of the cab.

* * *

Once he judged himself to be a safe distance from the warehouse, Wyatt slowed to a walk, weighing his options. He had no idea how long it would be before Lucy returned. It had already been far too long, as far as he was concerned. Better to keep himself busy, prepare for the next phase of the mission, rather than drive himself crazy, waiting for a phone call.

First thing first, he needed some sort of transportation. It took him only about fifteen minutes to find yet another beat-up truck, old enough to be easy to hot-wire, in a quiet alley….with no one around. He allowed himself to take some enjoyment from the fact that it went much faster for him, this time—hardened car thief, indeed!

There were other things to be done, but less than an hour later, Wyatt had completed each task on his mental checklist. And still no word from Lucy. He found himself sitting in the borrowed truck, ready to take off to join her, as soon as he got word.

He started to worry. What if she didn't think to call her cell phone? How would she contact him? Would she go to his apartment? Should _he_ go there? But, she knew he was still a fugitive, and couldn't go there. So where would she go? Would she maybe wait at one of the local drinking establishments the team would go to after a rough mission? But there was more than one….and how would he know which one she was at? Wait—would she go to the warehouse? No, she'd know better than that—

Wyatt scrubbed his hands across his face. He had to calm down. This wasn't helping. She would know that he had her cell phone from Jiya's bag. She would call. _She would call_. He just hoped it was soon, before he went completely insane.

Staring out the windshield, willing himself to breathe in and out….the truth came crashing down around him.

He was in love with Lucy Preston.

There was no other reason for his feelings…. And not some kind of platonic love, like for a comrade at arms…. _Oh crap_ …. What was he going to do? And it wasn't like he hadn't known it for a while, he supposed. The way he looked forward to going to MI—just to see her. The way just the sound of her voice could make him feel. Then there was that damn bolt of electricity when he'd kissed her in the warehouse….

 _And what are you gonna do about it, Logan?_

Because this had never been in his plans. This wasn't supposed to happen. He hadn't thought it would _ever_ happen again. Surely it was best to ignore it? Best for him…..and most definitely best for Lucy. And what if he didn't ignore it? What was he supposed to do? Actually _say_ something to her? He knew her...he knew _them_ well enough to know that, if he did, she would never laugh in his face, or anything similarly humiliating. But what if it was worse than that? What if she thought he was a nice guy, a good friend, someone she could count on in these crazy missions….and then what if he went and tried to make it something _more_ , and what if she played along….just so as not to hurt him? _Because that was something she would do, wasn't it?_ And then….what if he ruined her life? Kept her from doing what she was meant to do….kept her from being with who she was meant to be with.

He dropped his head down on the steering wheel. Harder than he intended….probably not as hard as he deserved.

 _Okay_ ….so what if he ignored it? Just kept doing what he was doing….just kept protecting his team. After all, wasn't that what he had _just_ decided his new purpose was? So….protect the team, protect Lucy. And just pretend like there was nothing else going on. Then Lucy would survive to live the life she was supposed to live, find the person she was supposed to be with, and he would be happy for her. He could do that. After all, what had he been doing, spending all those years honing his inner compartments to hide his feelings, if not for this? If not to hide just his feelings, but to also hide his truths?

And that was also how he survived, wasn't it? Those compartments…that had been how he had survived these past five years….probably even longer.

So, he was good at that….he could pretend. Like he had already pretended, as he'd watched Noah patching up Rufus—doing everything in his power to push back the jealousy-driven rage that grew every second he looked at the man….every second he listened to the way he talked to her…. Pushing it back, forcing his fist not to find the asshole's nose…. That type of pretending. He could do that. And whenever somebody like McCarthy mistook Lucy for his wife….or they had to actively play-acted the couple….well he could just keep forcing _those_ feelings back too—those feelings of warmth and comfort and belonging, and...joy. _And when the heck was the last time he felt joy?_ But he could keep doing that….he could keep pushing it back. Just let the jerks of history keep thinking she was his wife, he wouldn't mind….he knew the truth….about his wife….

Jessica. Because Jessica was his wife, and he loved her, so what was this even about? In the grand scheme of things, it had only been a few _hours_ since he had tried to change history to save her. Even though it didn't work. Even though….somehow….he knew it _couldn't_ work. Then he heard Lucy's voice in his head, _'Does that mean that you have to live the rest of your life without anyone else?'_ And he knew it was a rhetorical question—he already knew what Lucy thought.

And he knew someone else who would agree with her. Jess would agree. Jess would kick his ass for hiding from the possibility of a real life….of him continually living in the shadows…. No one knew how to live, knew how to feel and share joy like his Jess. She would….want him to feel again….would want him to feel that joy again. She would kick his ass for not accepting that all of _this_... All of this present….was real-and that this was where he was-and that what happened next, whether he lived in shadow or light...well, that was up to him to decide.

He lifted his head from the steering wheel. He was about to swipe at a tear he felt sting the corner of his eye, but changed his mind, instead watching it in the rear view mirror as it tracked down his cheek. He watched it like it was someone else's tear….like it was someone else's face….

He sighed. So what, then, if he told Lucy? What if he told her how he felt, and….somehow….she actually returned his feelings….like wholly and totally returned his feelings? What then? He was not an easy person to love. He knew that. His hotheadedness, his jealous streak, his flashbacks and panic attacks in crowds, his brooding….his sometimes unfathomable selfishness that drove him to act in reckless ways that even he couldn't fully understand…. Yeah. He was a real prize. How was that good for Lucy? He was _lying_ to her….even now….every single day since they'd met. He was part of Rittenhouse. And wasn't he therefore everything he'd sworn to protect her from?

Crap. A man could drive himself crazy like this.

This mission….he slumped in the seat, pressing his forehead into his hands, as he balanced his elbows on his knees. What was it about this mission? They get in the Lifeboat, and his intent, his _job_ , is to protect the team and achieve the mission objective. That meant he didn't leave her side, if he could help it. He certainly didn't want to….but then Lucy went and made other plans— _asking_ him to leave her, telling him to trust Flynn to keep her safe. _Flynn_ , who just a few hours earlier had been okay with her being snuffed from existence as he killed her grandfather. And Lucy—always so selfless— _Who knew there were even people still like that left in the world?_ —not wanting him to shoot Flynn in that basement. Wanting the solution to all of this senseless death and disappearances to have as little blood shed as possible. And then he watched her….talking to Flynn...convincing him. It never ceased to amaze him how much he had learned from her…..how much he could still learn from her in the future. And then she asked him to leave her….

He checked Lucy's still-quiet phone again….just in case he had missed something.

Lucy was off saving the world, he chided himself, she would call when she was ready.

Lucy's plan. If Lucy's plan worked...then it was truly possible that his mission to protect the time team could be a success. And Rittenhouse would be gone, and the world would be a better place. And then what? Then he would go back to Pendleton, get another assignment. But he couldn't bear the thought of leaving her….of not protecting her….he didn't want to stop, didn't want to lose her from his life.

" _It'll be okay._ " That was what she had said to him most recently. He refused to allow himself to even _think_ the phrase "the last thing she said to him". And he knew it would be okay... _she_ would be okay….even though he most certainly wasn't. Because how could he be? How could he be okay, when she wasn't with him? How could he be okay without her, when she was the one who had _taught_ him to be okay….she had taught him to _live_ again….that was the most important thing he could learn from her, wasn't it?

He pushed his head back against the head rest of the seat, swiping his hands across his face. And here he was, back at the beginning of the circle again.

If you feel that way…. _What you gonna do about it, Logan?_

But maybe it wasn't even about what he was going to do. This….this was _her_ call. If she wanted him….if she thought maybe she could love him, the way he loved her.

And with that single thought….it became clear to him. Like a fog lifting from a valley. He _did_ want this….he _did_ want to explore the possibility. He didn't want to just go back to Pendleton and walk back out of her life, or have her walk out of his. And what _was_ he going to do about it? He supposed most sane and rational people would suggest the first step might be telling her how he felt. Not that he was sane or rational….but he supposed there weren't many ways around the talking thing, were there?

So, that was it then, he would tell her….tell her what she meant to him. He would let her decide what to do with that information….

Ugh. He would tell her right after he told her about being a part of Rittenhouse, of course….

If she ever came back to the present and called him, of course.

He glared at the cell phone, a new wave of panic rising in his chest. He never should have trusted Flynn. There was no telling what that asshole was doing to her….what he might be—

The phone was ringing. He stared at it for a moment, in a stupor. _The phone's ringing!_ He screamed at himself, forcing his arm to reach out, his fingers to bend and grasp the flimsy piece of technology. And why did this all seem to be in slow motion…..and what was _wrong_ with him?

"Hello," he croaked out, suddenly realizing he was holding the phone upside down. With a whispered curse, he turned it around. "Hello?" he said again.

There was silence on the other end of the line, then a scratching noise, as though someone had covered the microphone with their hand. He caught a few mumbled words.

"You were….Wyatt….lucky….phone."

"Flynn?!"

There was a new crackling sound, and then the voice on the other end of the line was clear. "There, I didn't hurt her; I brought her back….are you happy?"

"Let me talk to her."

There was a dramatic sigh on the other end of the line. "No, I'm not going to let you talk to her. I really don't have time for the after school special of it all…. No, you know what? It's not even about the time….I just can't be bothered with any of it."

"You're a jackass."

"So what? You gonna come after me again?"

"I had the drop on you….in that basement….it's only because of Lucy that—"

"That I'm still here? I'm not sure if you're happy about that or disappointed. But, I've decided to revisit my previous statement. It's not that _I_ don't have time for this….you and Lucy, _you_ don't have time for this, do you? You have things to do, to hold up your end of the bargain. Besides which, I'm bored of this already. And, you know what? If this thing works….we don't have to see each other again."

"Where are you?"

He heard the other man laugh. "Like I'm going to tell you. But, in the spirit of our recent joint venture….I will tell you where you can find your Lucy."

"Where?"

"They say patience is a virtue, Wyatt."

If he had been physically capable of leaping through the phone, he would have done it.

"Oh, I can hear you hyper-ventilating from here. Calm down. There's a rundown diner off the 280 in Los Altos. I hear they have amazing BLTs. She'll be waiting for you."

And then the call disconnected.

* * *

He broke multiple traffic laws, racing to get to the address. He left the truck running, door open, as he dashed into the all-night diner—his eyes scanning the interior until—he saw her. There, in the back corner, facing away from him at first, until the closing of the door drew her attention and she turned…. And she beamed at him….and his heart leapt. She jumped to her feet, and before he even had time to react, she was there, in his arms again, where she belonged.

He was nearly overcome with joy and relief at seeing her unharmed. She had released him, and was now buzzing about the mission, about Ethan, about the plan. His vision swam before him for an instant, barely believing she was really here, really back to him safe. It almost seemed like a dream, but there she went, talking, and talking, and talking some more….and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Finally she paused in telling him about the plan, to come up for air, he supposed.

He grinned at her, allowing himself the indulgence of reaching toward her cheek to brush away a stray hair.

"Hi."

She ducked her head slightly, smiling. "Hi."

"Got your stuff that Jiya grabbed from MI….and got you a truck too."

"She met his eyes again, still smiling. "I can always count on you, can't I? Now, we need to find out—"

"—where Ethan Cahill is now? Did that. Good news….he's in San Francisco. I was really afraid he'd be on the other side of the country or something…."

"He's nearby, you found him?"

He flashed a grin at her. "Yep, got us a place we can lay low for a day or two, too."

She shook her head at him, "Shelter, transportation, and intel."

"I think I'm feeling hurt that you're shocked!"

"Not shocked….just….well, who knew you'd take so well to being a fugitive?"

He smiled again….this was getting to be a habit around her. "It's getting late. Go change in the truck if you want," he motioned toward the vehicle. "And then we'll be on our way to see your Grandfather."

He didn't even ask if there was anything else she needed to do first—he didn't need to. He knew how much she had wagered….how much she had potentially sacrificed, for this.

* * *

He watched, as Lucy stood nervously in the foyer of the grand house….just waiting. Someone, the nurse? He couldn't remember, had gone to get Ethan, bring him back downstairs. That had seemed like forever-ago, and now the anticipation, the nerves….they were affecting him as well. The part of his brain that had actively been planning his 'possibilities' speech since he'd got her back suddenly kicked into over-drive, reminding him nerves would be normal even without a nefarious shadow organization. After all, he was there to meet her family, and….He forced himself to stop that line of thought. There was no point in letting him get carried away.

Finally, they were lead from the foyer to see Ethan. Wyatt hung slightly back, as she entered the sitting room. After all, this was her Grandfather. But….much more than that—this was her plan. This was her solution...her solution to the seemingly never-ending trips through time. Lucy had found the solution. Not Rittenhouse, with all their wealth and resources. Not Flynn, with his obsessive drive and NSA training. Not Rufus, with his incredible brain and technical know-how. And not him, with his Delta-Force machismo and expertise. It was Lucy. Which he should have known—which he probably _did_ know…..even back that first mission. It was Lucy that would save them all.

Wyatt watched quietly from a few feet away, as Lucy spoke with her Grandfather. He had done it. Ethan had done as Lucy had asked. He had gathered….information, Wyatt supposed, to help them bring down Rittenhouse in the present. They were one very major step closer to seeing this through. One major step closer to actually doing this….actually putting an end to Rittenhouse, and a stop to the threat to the timeline. They were _that_ close…..and his team were safe. Well, Rufus said something was still up with Jiya, but the hospital said she was completely healthy….

He was pulled from his musings by the realization that Lucy was talking to him from where she knelt beside her grandfather.

"….should we go now?" she asked.

He shook his head quickly, and stepped forward from where he'd been leaning against the fireplace. "Whatever you want."

There was a chuckle from Ethan. "You could go now….but I don't think that building," he motioned toward the scrap of paper containing the address that was still in Wyatt's hand, "has seen electricity in twenty years. Might be a little dark."

Lucy stood, turning more fully toward Wyatt. "But, if we leave it until morning….if Rittenhouse finds out…."

"Lucy….my Granddaughter," Ethan said softly. She turned back toward him. "That location has been safe from Rittenhouse for over sixty years. It'll keep another night."

Wyatt walked toward Lucy, putting his hand on her elbow. She looked at him, seeming to be searching for something in his face. He squeezed her elbow gently, and nodded.

"Okay," she said, "We'll go first thing tomorrow."

"Good," said Ethan. "Do you need a place to stay?"

Lucy looked over at Wyatt, a question in her eyes. He took another tiny step closer to her. "No sir, we have somewhere to stay."

"Anything else I can do to help?"

Lucy smiled, "No—you've done so much for us already."

Wyatt nodded in agreement, "If you help us any more….someone could…..well, I don't want anyone becoming suspicious."

Ethan chuckled lightly, the sound making him seem not so much older that he had been when Wyatt had first laid eyes on him, back in 1954.

"I'm an old man now, son. A little suspicion might cause me some entertainment."

Wyatt smiled at that, and placed his hand on Lucy's lower back, about to usher her from the room. He didn't miss the slight smirk that crossed Ethan's face.

"Well, you better get going then. I'm sure I'll hear how it turns out." He gave Wyatt another tiny smile.

"You keep taking care of my Granddaughter, young man."

"Yes, sir."

Ethan's eyes turned back to Lucy; as she bent down to kiss his cheek. He smiled then, at her. "You both keep looking after of each other."

* * *

Wyatt pulled into a gravel lot, beside a boarded-up strip joint.

He watched as Lucy surveyed the neighbourhood beyond her window.

Finally she turned back to him. "It's…." she seemed to be searching for the right word. "Classy."

He grinned at her. "Fugitives like the wrong side of the tracks, remember?"

She wrinkled her nose slightly, and raised an eyebrow at him in question.

"Come on," they had both exited the vehicle, and he motioned her down the street with his chin, "The place we're staying, it's just a block from here."

He started walking, and she trailed behind him. "But….won't the police be looking for this truck?"

"Partly why I'm parking it a block away from where we're staying."

"But then what do we do in the morning, if they find the truck?"

"It'll be fine."

She looked at him, skeptically.

He shrugged, "Look, it's a beater….and I stole it in a dodgy neighbourhood…..

"Oh, so you're telling me that the trip to this neighbourhood was just to make the truck feel more comfortable?"

He paused, shaking his head at her, then gave her a smirk. "Actually, I stole it from a neighbourhood even dodgier than this. But anyway….because of all that, there's a strong chance the truck hasn't even been reported missing….so the cops won't be looking for it."

He saw a cloud pass over her face. She was starting to worry, to spin, again….

"But what if the truck _has_ been reported….and what if the police find it? What will we do, how will we get to the address….?"

He flashed her a small smile. "Then I'll steal another one in the morning." She still didn't look convinced. He allowed the smile to turn into a smirk. "I'm getting pretty good at it, you know. One of these days, I might even be as good as Rufus."

She stopped mid step, turning to look back at him with slight embarrassment in her eyes.

He tried to give her his best hurt look, but failed miserably as soon as he looked into those eyes. He cracked, his frown turning into a wide grin, a slight chuckle escaping at her expense. "Come on, tough girl," he said, walking alongside her and casually swinging his arm around her shoulder. "I have a new experience for you."

"A new experience?"

"Um-hm. At least, I hope it is…."

"What's that?"

They walked a few more metres along the sidewalk, until he pulled her down a driveway on the left.

"Your castle for the evening, milady," he gave an over-the-top bow.

She peered at the building, then looked back at him. "It's a shabby motel, Wyatt. Believe it or not, I actually have stayed in one, before, when I was young, and in a band."

"Ah," he replied, but _this_ is a shabby motel where you pay by the hour."

"Ewww," she stopped in her tracks, and looked at him.

"A shabby motel where you pay by the hour and they don't bother asking for ID or a credit card when you check in."

She nodded, understanding growing in her eyes. "Okay, I get it, but still….maybe I'll sleep in the truck."

"Ah, come on, where's your sense of adventure, Preston?"

He started walking with purpose toward the motel, smiling to himself as he heard her start moving after him.

He opened the door, the ancient-looking knob spinning loosely. He flipped on the light, intent on her face. He was rewarded as he watched her face first open with a smile, and then break into what seemed to be uncontrollable giggles.

"That's quite the scene there, Wyatt...you made your own special modifications?"

He grinned. "Yeah, so I was grossed out upon check in too….so I bought an air mattress and some blankets at the army supply store down the block….no way was I letting you sleep in that bed."

He watched as she rested her chin in her palm, grinning at him. "Thank you," she said.

It was his turn to grin as she suddenly dove onto the air mattress, burying herself in the covers.

"Ah….do you need to….I don't know…..change or something?"

A voice floated toward him from under the blanket.

"No, too tired."

"I think you might be a bit uncomfortable, after a couple of hours…."

She tugged the blanket down a tiny bit, so that her eyes peered up at him, just at the level of the blanket. "Aren't you all Mr. Practical today."

He shrugged at her.

"Fine," she sighed, overly-dramatically, "If you insist."

She dove under the blanket again, and there seemed to be a sudden burst of movement. Wyatt wasn't really certain what was going on, until she started discarding pieces of clothing—her jacket, her socks, her….bra—out the other side of the bed. He swallowed; trying to compose himself, as he mentally calculated exactly what she still _was_ wearing….under that blanket.

Her eyes appeared over the edge of the blanket, seeking out his. "There, are you happy?"

He nodded silently, watching as she suddenly sat upright on the mattress.

"But wait, you're not sleeping in that bed either, are you?"

He smiled at her wickedly, "I guess that's up to you."

She looked at the air mattress, then back at Wyatt. "It's bigger than the bed at Bonnie and Clyde's cabin."

"That it is," he agreed.

She smiled at him shyly, and then flopped down on her side again. "Come on" she said, "You get the other side….and get some sleep, I wanna be out of here at the crack of dawn."

"Yes ma'am," he said, turning out the light and lying down beside her. He felt rather than saw her reach for him in the darkness, and met her halfway, clasping her hand in his.

He heard her whisper softly, as he closed his eyes.

"This is it, Wyatt…..tomorrow, we stop them."

 _Tomorrow_ , he thought, as he drifted off to sleep... Tomorrow this nightmare would be over, tomorrow he would be free. Tomorrow….he would tell her everything.


	20. Chapter 20

_Author's Note: I've posted 2 chapters in the past few days, and the site has been wonky. Make sure you didn't miss chapter 19!_

 _Form Chapter 19:_

 _"_ _But wait, you're not sleeping in that bed either, are you?"_

 _He smiled at her wickedly, "I guess that's up to you."_

 _She looked at the air mattress, then back at Wyatt. "It's bigger than the bed at Bonnie and Clyde's cabin."_

 _"_ _That it is," he agreed._

 _She smiled at him shyly, and then flopped down on her side again. "Come on" she said, "You get the other side….and get some sleep, I wanna be out of here at the crack of dawn."_

 _"_ _Yes ma'am," he said, turning out the light and lying down beside her. He felt rather than saw her reach for him in the darkness, and met her halfway, clasping her hand in his._

 _He heard her whisper softly, as he closed his eyes._

 _"_ _This is it, Wyatt…..tomorrow, we stop them."_

 _Tomorrow, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep…. Tomorrow this nightmare would be over, tomorrow he would be free. Tomorrow….he would tell her everything._

* * *

Chapter 20:

He woke with a start, realizing the first rays of dawn were filtering in through the busted blinds on the motel room window. Also realizing that somehow, during the night, he and Lucy had both migrated to the centre of the air mattress, and that her long limbs seemed to be hopelessly entangled with his. _And_ realizing that his hand was currently cupping a certain part of her anatomy that it had _absolutely_ no business cupping. He yanked the hand in question back to his side, then more carefully began extricating his limbs from hers. He had managed to separate himself about half-way from her, when her eyes suddenly opened. If she was at all surprised by their current position, she didn't let on.

"Is it morning?" she asked in a husky sleep-filled voice that affected him more than it should have.

"Yeah," he said.

And then he was treated to a moment of magic—a moment of time travel in his own lifetime—as he watched a broad grin encompass her face, and he knew he was looking at a picture of seven-year-old Lucy Preston waking on Christmas morning.

"Then let's go!"

Later, he'd watched Lucy out of the corner of his eye while they'd driven in near silence to the building her Grandfather had identified. She was nearly vibrating in anticipation. So was he, he supposed, except he could hardly bring himself to believe that this was actually happening—that they were possibly close to bringing down Rittenhouse, identifying the Flynn family killer….and putting all of this behind them. Except, glancing over at Lucy once more, he knew there was one part of this whole thing that he definitely didn't want to put behind him. It was more than that, really. Because, for the first time in months, he'd dared to think about what might be next. He took yet another glance in her direction. How would she respond, when he told her what he was thinking….what he was hoping? Because that's what he was relying on here….pure hope. And it had been so long since he let himself do that….guess it was no wonder that he was rusty at this thing. But it wasn't a crazy hope, right? I mean, she said that she had kissed him….and would Lucy Preston really just lip-lock some random guy just because she was over-tired? It didn't sound like her….except….

He sighed. He should just tell her now, just start talking, that's all there was to it. Tell her about his hope, tell her about his feelings….tell her about the future he was dreaming about. Sighing again, he put an hand on her arm, and said, "I've texted Agent Christopher the address of this place….took a bit of a flier, used the private number she used to tell me to meet the team at the warehouse. I know there's a good chance she won't get the message...but I'm also confident the message won't get into the wrong hands."

He glanced over at her again, and she nodded silently, checking the GPS for the millionth time since they'd got in the truck.

 _Well….this truly wasn't the time for that kind of conversation anyway_ …..after all, they were on a mission. They would talk more, after they discovered what Ethan Cahill had in store for them.

* * *

They arrived at the run-down and apparently abandoned office building within the hour. Wyatt approached cautiously, visually sweeping the grounds, looking for any sign of—seemingly from nowhere, Lucy had suddenly found her heretofore missing coordination, and had sprinted ahead of him and up the building steps like an antelope.

"Lucy!" he called out—but she was already inside.

So he sprinted off after her…..because what else could he do?

They found the unit number on the third floor. Wyatt was relieved that his initial assessment—that the building was abandoned and empty—had been correct.

Lucy was standing in front of the door, hand hovering over the door knob. She turned to him, and spoke. Wyatt realized it was the first words she'd said to him since they'd left the motel.

"Is it….whatever we find in here….is it going to be enough?"

He flashed her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Only one way to find out, ma'am."

She was still for the briefest of moments, and then smiled back. She then turned, placing her hand on the doorknob, and gave it a turn.

The door didn't budge.

She turned again…..still nothing.

She turned back to him, a sheepish expression crossing her eyes. "It's locked….which….makes sense, I guess. Did Ethan give us a key?"

Wyatt shook his head.

"But how do we…..why wouldn't he give us the key? Wyatt—we're so close, no, this can't be…."

He put his hand on hers, trying to calm the spiral of emotion he saw rising in her body, her face. He noted that her body relaxed slightly, at his touch.

He gave her a gentle smile, and was rewarded by seeing her face follow suit.

"S'okay Luce," he winked at her. "It's a piece of crap old lock."

She threw her arms around him in a quick embrace, and he allowed himself the indulgence of breathing her in, memorizing the way it felt as every curve and line melted against him, pressed against him. He chuckled softly.

"What would I do without you, Wyatt?" she said into his shirt.

That stopped him cold. Once he reminded himself to breathe again, and told the inner voice that was screaming ' _kiss her, kiss her_ ' to shut up, he slowly disentangled himself from her. He cleared his throat, willing his voice to come out with some semblance of smoothness. "Gonna need both hands for this, baby doll."

She laughed, backing away from him, her face turning a lovely shade of pink.

"Right, sorry."

He pulled a pin from his pocket, and made quick work of the lock. Leaving the door closed, he turned to Lucy, grabbed her hand, and placed it back on the knob.

"Ready to do the honours?"

She nodded slightly. He could see her take a quick breath, and then turn the knob, and push the door open.

He heard her gasp from in front of him, and then found himself echoing her, as he fully entered the room with her.

This was definitely going to be enough.

Wyatt walked the perimeter, running his hand along the multitude of boxes stacked there, taking in the file cabinets and desk drawers. He turned back toward Lucy, who was busying herself at what looked like an old-school card-catalogue cabinet. Trust her to go to that first.

"This is your Grandfather's Life's Work, Lucy. This," he watched as she pulled a card from the middle of the drawer, "This is more evidence than Agent Christopher could have ever wished for."

She looked up from the card in her hand, but instead of the beaming smile he expected her to send his way, she shot him an inscrutable look.

He raised an eyebrow at her strange reaction to such good news….but deciding there really was no touchstone for deciding what constituted a strange reaction in this situation, he ploughed on. "Lucy…..think about it. We know that Rittenhouse….they don't write anything down. But Ethan…..he did. It's all going to be here—information on the work they do from the shadows, information on how Rittenhouse members are manipulating the country…. And it's more than that Lucy; it's going to be _names_! Names of Rittenhouse members in places of power all over this country, names we can now connect directly to their dirty dealings….probably even the names of the Flynn family killers…." Hearing his voice rising in pitch dramatically with excitement he paused, and glanced up to finally see that smile he had been waiting for light Lucy's face.

He returned the grin, "This is everything we need, everything we could have hoped for—to put an end to this."

As his brain caught up to his own words, he stilled—his hand falling from the file box to his side. _To put an end to this….and to him._ Because his name was going to be here….he knew that with an uncanny certainty. Somewhere, among the boxes, the files, the papers….was going to be his name.

The room swam around him for a moment, as he placed his hand on the top of a filing cabinet, to steady himself. He forced himself to focus, to bring the streaky images around him into some kind of order again. He found his anchor in her face, of course….and was able to pull himself back from the edge of overwhelment just in time to see the concern in her eyes, as she voiced,

"Wyatt?"

He forced himself to smile. "There's a whole lot of paper here, Luce. Good thing you love research. I think we're gonna need a whole lotta coffee, ma'am."

She rolled her eyes in response, although he could tell there was no malice behind it, and she turned back to the cabinet drawer

"Well then, better get crackin', Delta Force".

He returned his gaze to the filing cabinet, opening the drawer that had been supporting him just a moment earlier. He expected the anxiety, the swimming of the room, to return….but it didn't. Instead, it was replaced by that same strange sense of calm that he had felt earlier, in that black site.

His name would be somewhere in this room.

And then all of his crimes and lies would be known. And maybe that was the way it should be. After all, Lucy didn't need him anymore on missions, did she? She'd be returning to her old life…..the life that she loved—and a life that hadn't included him. She might be sad at first, learning the truth, and that broke his heart….but once she had her life back….well, hopefully she wouldn't even waste her thoughts on how he had betrayed her.

And, what about him? He would be arrested, it seemed certain, arrested as a part of the Rittenhouse sweep that he himself had helped to initiate. Arrested, and probably thrown back into a black site prison. Which was what he deserved. After all the lies….surely he deserved whatever was coming his way.

And so much for those lovely possibilities he'd let himself imagine just hours earlier. But, he should have known better. Because he didn't deserve that….couldn't deserve that. Besides….Lucy would be so much better off….

His spiraling thoughts were broken by Lucy's voice.

"He didn't just keep records of Rittenhouse," he watched, as she eagerly dug into a new file, "He built us our entire case!"

He chewed on his lip. "Yeah," he replied hesitantly, not knowing what else he could possibly say.

* * *

The morning had moved along. Turned out that Christopher had received his message, after all, and she had appeared at Ethan's room, bringing along with her the surprising revelation that Mason was somehow now back on their side, and apparently was offering up a super computer for assistance. Though Wyatt wasn't sure that any computer could be _that_ impressive in the war against Rittenhouse.

Christopher had tried to organize a methodical clearing of the information, but she needn't have wasted her energy, since Lucy had already initiated a grid search and cross-reference system that would have made his old Army Major proud. Wyatt couldn't help but enjoy the moment of truth as the two women had stared each other down, armed with only their opposing organizational systems. The battle was short-lived however….Lucy won. Too bad he hadn't suggested to Mason they put bets on it….he could have been a rich man.

Christopher and Mason then brought the first information set back to Mason Industries, to run through the data. Within the hour, Wyatt started receiving texts from Christopher about a whirlwind of corroborating evidence and links.

Okay….so maybe Mason's computer _was_ impressive.

Wyatt and Lucy kept at it, drawer after drawer, file after file, paper after paper...and still no sign of incriminating evidence against him.

About two hours later, Christopher returned.

"Wyatt, can I speak with you?" Christopher motioned him over to the other side of the room.

Wyatt met Lucy's eyes, and he gave her a quick wink, before moving to join his boss.

"This is all good work here," she nodded toward the boxes of information that were being removed from the room, "And it's already proven useful."

 _Uh oh_. He raised his eyebrows at her in response.

She sighed, "I'm going to tell Lucy in a minute, but it's important that you know that we just brought Benjamin Cahill into custody."

 _Oh crap_. He nodded slowly, he steeled himself for her next statement, "So….why is it important I know this?"

She smiled tightly. That wasn't the response he'd been expecting…. Honestly, he'd been expecting the handcuffs to come out….

"Because I told the DOJ, the NSA, the DOD, and anyone else who would listen that your joy-ride with the Lifeboat to the '80s was a part of a sting operation….designed to put Cahill behind bars. And luckily, none of them asked me for any details beyond that.

He stared at her, as understanding began to dawn.

She nodded, "So….with Cahill's arrest, you are officially no longer a fugitive from the US government….in fact, I think they're planning on giving you a medal."

" _No_ medals."

"I told them you'd say that. But, anyway, you're free to return to your apartment, MI….well, you're a free man all around."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said. "But what about you?"

She smiled again. "I am now officially back in charge of the Flynn operation, and now am also officially in charge of the Rittenhouse sweep." She nodded back at the boxes and boxes of information. There's still a lot of work to be done, so better get back at it. I'm going to go talk to Lucy."

Wyatt watched her walk in Lucy's direction. He was lucky, to have superiors who thought so highly of him. The fact that she would stick her neck out for him like that…. He watched as she spoke quietly to Lucy, no doubt telling her of her biological father's arrest. Lucy didn't seem surprised, or concerned, really. Just….accepting.

 _What would Christopher think of him, when the truth about him came to light?_ He glanced over at the boxes of intel being collected and transported back to Mason's super computers. He supposed she'd find out sooner, rather than later. _What would any of them think of him_? He watched as Lucy returned to sorting through a stack of documents resting on a filing cabinet. Seeming to realize she was being watched, she suddenly raised her head, making eye contact with him. She smiled.

He was sorry that Christopher, Rufus, and all the others would think less of him, once the truth was revealed. But honestly….all he truly cared about was how the news would affect Lucy. He desperately wished he could spare her the pain….but it was too late. Probably about seven years too late. And most definitely two kisses….one for show and one for real….too late.

* * *

By 2pm, true to his word, Mason's computers were spitting out mounds of additional evidence, and Christopher was rolling out an obscene number of arrest warrant requests. Wyatt was still busy digging through mountains of paperwork, Lucy by his side, cross-referencing names and dates with what they had already discovered, and organizing them for transport back to Connor Mason. He was exhausted. Even Lucy had lost her usual "research high", a term Rufus had coined several months back given how darn excited she always got whenever there were papers to be read, cross-referenced, and organized. But now, when he glanced over at her, Lucy was looking drawn, and tired. Wyatt sighed, and pushed back from the cabinet he'd been going through. He put his hand on Lucy's shoulder to get her attention, and she turned to him with a weary smile.

"I'm starting to feel like it's just the same names, over and over again," she said, leaning in to his touch, slightly. "Maybe we've identified most of them already?"

He shrugged, noncommittally. "Maybe." Even though he knew that wasn't true….there was still at least one name that Lucy hadn't read yet. And he didn't even know how to feel about that. He had made peace that it was likely going to happen….but the not knowing _when_ part of things…. Not knowing when Lucy would stumble upon his name in the Rittenhouse hall of fame that her Grandfather had amassed here….not knowing when Mason's super computer would spit out his name based on other evidence…. it was still eating at him, making him tired. He was about to say something more, when his attention was drawn to the door, as Agent Christopher re-entered the room. He continued to watch, with mild curiosity, as she ushered ten more agents in with her.

Christopher smiled at him, as she caught his eye. She must have correctly interpreted his question.

"New recruits," she said, "For the paper brigade."

Wyatt looked back toward Lucy, and with some surprise realized that his hand was rubbing at her shoulder in circles. _When had that started?_ He forced his hand to still. "You've been at this literally since dawn, Luce," he said, "Why don't you take a break, get some rest?"

"I could say the same to you, you know."

He smiled. "I will if you will."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Absolutely."

"Well then….I'm not one to back down from a challenge."

"So—where are we napping? My place, or yours?"

"What?"

His smile broadened. He hadn't really intended the question to come out like that….but he wasn't disappointed that it had. "I'm thinking about maybe going back to my apartment….you know, mostly because I _can_. Maybe do something totally crazy like have a shower or something. Do you want to come with me?

She raised her eyebrow at him.

He laughed. "I mean, just to relax for a bit, not the shower part of things….of course….unless you weren't thinking that at all?" He ducked his head sheepishly—he could tell Lucy was silently laughing at him. Reorganizing his thoughts, he addressed her again. "Christopher's brought in the cavalry; I think we've done our duty here. I mean, you at least need to get something to eat, right?"

She pulled her hair back with her hands, twisting it off of her face. "Something to eat sounds nice. But….why don't you go ahead, I'll meet you there, later on in the day."

"You're really going to keep at this?"

She opened her mouth, as though about to affirm his question, but then closed it again. "Well….maybe…I mean, not really." She watched as the newly-arrived agents started going through the cabinets on the far wall. She shrugged slightly, as she brought her eyes back to his. "Truth is….there's something I have to do first."

"Flynn." It wasn't a question. She had shown him the documents hours ago—the documents that would give Flynn his answers.

She nodded, wordlessly.

"I don't like it," he sighed.

"I know. But….I owe it to him."

He shook his head. "You really don't….this is the man who had Capone shoot Rufus, who has been traipsing through time with no thought…."

Now she put her hand on his shoulder. "He let us do things our way….he brought me back safe because he knew this plan could work. I have to bring him the information."

He sighed. "Okay….where should we meet with him?"

She shook her head slowly. "No—this is something I need to be alone. It's the agreement we made….when he took me to the diner after the Mothership brought me back. I just….it just needs to be this way."

Well, he guessed he would have to just keep trusting her, wouldn't he? He clasped her hand in his, bringing it down off his shoulder, until their hands were joined, between them. "Okay," he said, "Be careful."

* * *

Wyatt bent under the dash of the truck to hot-wire it yet again. Christopher had told him she could get an agent to give him a ride, but he had waved her off. He had no intention of bumming a ride back to his own apartment, now that he was a free man again….particularly because who knew how long that would last. So, he gave hot-wiring another attempt—even faster this time—and prepared to drive away in the stolen truck. _Borrowed_ , not stolen, he reminded himself. He'd managed to work it out with Christopher that, if they could locate the truck's owner, then the government would reimburse that person for their vehicle being appropriated during the course of an operation important to National Security, etcetera, etcetera. In fact, they were going to reimburse that person by buying them a brand new truck. Not a bad deal, all things considered. But, he'd been able to find no paperwork indicating ownership anywhere in the vehicle, and Agent Christopher had affirmed that there had been no theft reports…. As soon as he was able, he decided, he would just drive it back to where he got it from.

Just before he put it in gear, a flash of movement at the building's door caught his attention. It was Lucy….walking toward a cab. He had begged her to let him drive her to the meeting point with Flynn….but she had adamantly refused. She said that she knew, if he drove her there, he'd never be able to just drive away to let her do what she needed to do on her own. She was right, of course….but that didn't make him any happier about it.

Perhaps she felt him watching her, because just as she was about to step into the back seat she looked up, and locked on to his eyes. A moment of…. _something_ ….passed between them, and then she smiled, and gave him a thumbs up.

 _And what was he supposed to do with that?_

He suddenly realized she was still standing there….no doubt expecting a response. With a half-shrug to himself, he returned the gesture, and the smile. She held eye contact with him as she stepped into the car, mouthing ' _see you soon_ ' just before she disappeared from view in the darkened cab interior.

Wyatt continued to sit in the idling truck for a moment, just replaying that image in his mind.

* * *

Once Wyatt returned to his apartment, he chuckled as he realized that someone—Michelle, presumably—had done his dirty dishes and tidied his living room. It was good to be back here….to be _able_ to be back here. First things first he needed to clean up. Walking across the living room, his attention was drawn by a dark sedan sitting outside on the street. He felt a sudden burst of anxiety. _Was this it, then?_ Had his name been found? Had Christopher sent someone to get him? Was he going back to that black site prison after all? He shook his head, ordering himself to calm down, and he took another look at the car.

No. That's not what this was. From the position of the car, the type of car…. This was someone on protection duty. Protecting _him_ , apparently. He laughed out loud at the realization. There had been talk for some time about putting a car on Lucy and Rufus….he had told Christopher that he didn't need or want one. Apparently she wasn't taking no for an answer. On a whim, he took the pull for the window blinds in his hand and did his best to send a quick Morse code "hello" to whoever the poor sap was who was forced to stare at him all day. He chuckled again when the lights of the car in question flashed back in response to the greeting. Well—at least that meant that Lucy and Rufus were safer. And that he'd have to remember to put clothes on before walking in front of his windows.

His mind wandered to Lucy and Flynn as he prepared for his shower. He shoved that thought away—no good would come from worrying about their meeting. And besides, she really should be fine—she was giving Flynn everything he wanted, everything they had agreed to. Then the thought of her security detail flashed through his mind. That could be a complication….but maybe they weren't on her yet, maybe they were waiting at her mother's house?

He forced all thoughts of Rittenhouse, security details, and incriminating evidence in filing cabinets out of his mind, as he stepped under the hot spray of the shower.

Later, as he toweled off and dressed, he started wondering about Lucy's progress again. The shower had improved his mood—it was amazing what a good shower could do. He stopped suddenly, scrubbing at his wet hair with a towel, and looked at himself in the mirror. That was something that Jess used to always say—whenever he chided her for her ridiculously long showers.

Jess.

He dropped the towel on the floor, and walked with purpose into the bedroom.

Jess' board.

He turned it around, almost reverently, so that the research was again facing out, and he sat down on the foot of his bed, chin in hands, just staring at it. It was something he had first thought about back in that black site detention centre. It was time to put it away. Not get rid of it—just….put it away. He looked at it again, the pictures, the articles, the clues, the hand-written notes….and the hand written arrows and strings that made connections….that went nowhere. There was a reason why, when they showed that type of board in the movies, the owner was usually a crazy-person.

He'd realized in that black site that….even though he would never stop trying to find justice for Jess….the crazy board wasn't doing her any good. And it certainly wasn't doing _him_ any good, either. Months ago he had purchased a lock box just for the purpose of holding all his research….he just hadn't had the heart to do anything about it, at the time.

But now? He had done everything in his power to bring her back….he had tried to change _history_. And maybe Flynn was lying about the name, or maybe he wasn't and the Universe saw fit to re-arrange itself in such a way that the outcome was still the same…. But, either way, that trail of evidence, that possible theory….was wrong. And there were no new leads.

And hadn't he just decided to try and move on? Not to forget—never to forget….but to move on, and try living again. To see what the possibilities of actually living could hold for him? It was just as Lucy had said in that Rittenhouse basement—he had to stop trying to fix the past, and focus on the present, instead. He couldn't do that with a board in his bedroom. He sat for a few more moments….staring at the board. It was as though he were weighted down with cement—he couldn't force himself to move. He had just tried to get her back….just decided to move on….the emotional whiplash of the last five days was getting to him. Yet….he knew with certainty that this was something he had to do. _This didn't mean he was forgetting. This didn't mean he was giving up on finding her justice._ He finally forced himself to stand, and walked to the front of the board. _He could never do either of these things._ Then he heard her voice—Jessica's voice—clear as day in his head: _But you have to find room in your life for more than the board._ And she was right….because she was always right. And how long had she been telling him that, and how long had he been ignoring her?

He supposed it was like ripping off a Band-Aid. He went into the office and dug the lock-box out of the closet, bringing it back to the bedroom. And he started. It was simple, really. The articles, the information….he knew it all by heart. He didn't need to look at it, to study it. It was burned in his brain. One by one he slid the papers and photos into the box. He slowed mid-way, starting to lose confidence, but one singular thought got him moving again: Any moment now, Lucy was going to be at his door. And he didn't need her to see this, not right now. _Someday_ he promised himself, if he actually managed not to get arrested in the next twenty-four hours….and if she forgave him for his role in that horrible organization, of course….then someday, he would tell her. Someday, he would show her his research. Someday he would share this piece of his life….this piece of him…..with her, because he wanted to share _everything_ with her. But not right now.

As if on cue, just as he moved the now empty board into his closet and snapped lock box shut, there was a banging at his door.

"Wyatt? It's me."

He grinned. She was safe. He crossed the living room in three large strides to unlock the door and admit her...and realized from one look at her face that she was not happy.

"Christopher was there, with Homeland agents….they _arrested_ him…..can you believe it? And how did she even know how to find us?"

He opened his mouth, about to tell her exactly how Christopher knew, but then closed it again, as he realized that Lucy was on a role, and was apparently intending to answer her own questions, thank you very much.

"….Apparently she _followed_ me….she has some kind of security tail on me….on _all_ of us, for our protection," she scoffed. "That's what she tried to tell me….they were just there to protect me, until Christopher realized what I was doing, that I was meeting with him, and then suddenly it's nothing to do with protecting me, it's all about…. Wyatt, this is insane, why would she—" she trailed off, finally pausing in her tirade long enough to meet his eyes. "Wait….why don't you seem surprised?"

He threw his arm around her shoulders and led her over to the window. He pointed at the sedan. "Meet my security tail—I discovered him as soon as I got to my apartment today. I call him Steve."

"You've already introduced yourself?"

"No….but you're right, I should do that sometime today. But let's face it; it's a little weird to not even know the name of your government-ordered peeping Tom. So I'm calling him Steve….because I have to call him something….otherwise it would all be way too creepy."

She looked at him in bemusement, and he shot her his best lop-sided smirk.

"You're a….goofball," and she laughed.

His smirk slid into a grin. "Anything to make you smile, ma'am."

He watched as she took another glance out the window at the car, then turned back toward him, the smile slipping from her face.

"Still….she shouldn't have….we had an agreement. I told Flynn I'd get him his information….to save his family…."

Wyatt sighed. "Okay, so maybe what I'm going to say next won't make you smile."

She looked at him carefully. "What?"

"Christopher….she's not wrong."

"But he _helped_ us….he did the right thing….eventually."

"Mh-hmm," he nodded, "And I'm sure Christopher will make sure that counts for something, in the court case. But Luce…..you have to admit that the key word in that sentence was _eventually_. I mean….this is still a man responsible for so much death….so much destruction to the timeline. Who knows how many people have disappeared because of him? And, even if you bring it down to the less cosmically significant, to the smaller scale….this is still the guy who had Rufus shot, who tried to trap us in 1754. And don't forget he was perfectly okay with killing your grandfather that the Rittenhouse summit when he thought your father hadn't even been _born_ yet. Luce…." He trailed off, realizing that Lucy had the start of tears in her eyes.

"I know." The tears started to fall.

He sighed, and pulled her into a loose embrace.

"I'm sorry….it's just been….a lot."

"Don't be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry for. I know you want to help him."

"No," she sniffed, and wiped her eyes. "I mean….it's not so much that. I want….I want to help his family, I guess."

He tightened his hold on her, and she returned the hug.

"Actually," he began, slowly, "I'm not really sure that's true….I think that you _do_ want to help him, as well as his family."

She sniffed softly, then raised her gaze to meet his eyes again. "Fine….you're right. I wanted to help him too. I don't know why….

"Because you're incredible Luce, that's why….always thinking about others…." He trailed off, suddenly noticing the clock on the microwave behind him. It was getting late, much later than he had thought. It was _late_ , and no one had come to arrest him, yet. _Why not?_ If there was one thing he knew about the type of asset mapping that Christopher and Mason's computer were currently embroiled in….it never turned out well for the assets.

Pushing thoughts of his imminent arrest from his mind—it would happen when it happened, and for now, he just wanted to spend time with Lucy—he suggested that he make good on his offer of something to eat, Lucy's choice. Apparently Lucy had decided to go all out in celebrating their victory over Rittenhouse, because she suggested that they order a pizza.

They ate in companionable silence, watching some inane program on the television. After eating, Lucy had slid down the couch, until she was leaning against his side. Wyatt repeatedly stole glances at her, as nearly an hour ticked by like that. _It wasn't that hard to pretend…._ To pretend that his past didn't exist, and that Rittenhouse didn't exist. He glanced out the window to see two Sedans now parked on the street. To pretend that their security details, Reggie and Stan, as he would eventually learn, weren't there. To pretend that they were a couple—just a normal couple.

The site of the sedans sparked a thought in Wyatt's mind. "Lucy, did you drive here?"

She looked up from the television, somehow managing with that tiny movement to snuggle even closer to him.

"Nope….Reggie dropped me off….after I ranted to Agent Christopher for twenty minutes about the unfairness of it all."

Wyatt nodded with a smirk, "Security and personal Uber….nice."

She nodded absently, then yawned.

"Tired?"

She looked at him with an eyebrow raised high, "What do you think?"

"Okay, stupid question."

She smiled lightly, "I always tell my students, there are no stupid questions."

"That true?"

"No, not really….I've heard some pretty stupid questions, over the years."

He chuckled lightly. "I figured as much. Ready for another one?"

She looked at him, curiously.

"I think I've lost track somehow….where _is_ your car?"

She smiled at him, slightly. "Back at Mason Industries….hopefully. Where I parked it just before the Houston jump….the Houston bounce."

"Right, he said. That makes sense."

He watched her as she yawned again. She was tired….and he was just being a selfish ass, keeping her here…. He desperately wanted to talk….but that was what was good for him….not what was good for her, right? After all, the last time she was over-tired…. _It could wait_.

He sighed. "So….I guess you probably want to….go….soon. Do you need a ride? I can take you to your car, or to your Mom's, and then pick you up tomorrow…." he looked down and shrugged, not quite able to meet her eyes, "Or….whatever?"

Then it seemed to be her turn to duck her head shyly. "It's late….and I know my mom is at the house. And it's been days since I've been there….If I go back….she'll want to talk…..and I don't' know that she'll take 'non-disclosure thing' as an excuse….and we'll probably fight….and…. just want to sleep…."

He was silent for a moment, then carefully asked, "Do you want to stay here?"

She pulled herself upright, and he hated the loss of contact, the loss of comfort she'd been providing him.

"Not if it's a….problem."

He laughed out loud. "Luce—you couldn't be a problem if you tried. Come on, we both need sleep, I'll take the couch, you can have the bed."

She shook her head, adamantly, "You'll do no such thing—you just got back here, and I know you haven't truly slept well in days….probably weeks."

"Well, I have a rule about house guests not sleeping on the couch with the bad spring."

Now it seemed to be Lucy's turn to be silent, lost in her thoughts. After a moment, she said simply, "We can both sleep in your bed."

He stared at her.

"I mean….we just shared a bed last night….it's not like anything terrible happened."

He nodded, stunned. That had been on a mission….but here, now….when there were options? And he understood well enough to know that he might not be the only one thinking about possibilities….but this all just seemed…. But if that was what she wanted….who was he to ask questions? Instead, he stood, and said, "Yeah, I guess you're right." He realized too late to stop it that what he expected was a spectacularly stupid grin had spread across his face.

A heartbeat later he felt a warmth spread through him, as an equally stupid grin spread across Lucy's face.

"You know, he said, moving toward the bedroom door, "This is starting to become a habit with us." He didn't actually know if he was referring to the sleeping together or the stupid grins….but did know that he hoped both habits would continue.

* * *

Even with Lucy so close—just on the other side of the bed—breathing softly as she slept, Wyatt had difficulties falling asleep. Because, this was it. With Lucy's plan….with Ethan's information….they'd done it. They'd triumphed….gotten rid of Rittenhouse. And, even though Lucy wasn't thrilled about it, they'd also managed to put Garcia Flynn away, behind bars….where he couldn't screw up history any more.

It was over.

But….the problem was….he didn't want it to be. At least, he didn't want it _all_ to be over….because he didn't want to leave _her_. How could he walk away now, when he was just starting to feel….to truly experience life….after so long…. But, it wasn't like it was even his choice, was it? This mission was done. He'd have to return to Pendleton to take up another mission. _That's the way it works_ , he told himself. _And you've always been okay with that, before_. Besides, he'd just decided that protecting his team was his purpose….and now, they wouldn't need his protection anymore. But, this was different. Because, despite his best efforts, he'd been wholly unable to push the Lucy compartment back into storage. Instead, that Lucy compartment had been filling his mind, and opening his heart.

Maybe his team didn't need him anymore….but he needed them. He needed her.

And if he was going to be spared in Christopher's Rittenhouse sweep somehow….and he'd truly been given another chance….then he knew only one thing. He had to tell Lucy _everything_. Everything about Rittenhouse, about him….about how he felt about her….and most importantly about how he wanted to try living, really _living_ again. And he needed to tell her now. Except she was sleeping….so he wouldn't. Which meant that _he_ wouldn't be sleeping.

He rolled to his side, looking at her still sleeping form, reaching out to lightly brush her arm—just to prove to himself that she was _real_. He'd actually tried to tell her just a little bit, about his feelings, over dinner….but he hadn't been able to find the words. And then the phone had rang, with an update from Rufus, and the moment had been lost for the time being. He wasn't even sure what was holding him back. There was an unexpected nervousness….yet, weren't there signs in every one of their interactions that she would be open to hearing what he had to say about his feelings….surely it wouldn't even surprise her? And the flirty banter, the bed sharing, that kiss….maybe she even felt something similar? The thing was….it wasn't hiding his feelings from her that made him nervous, it was hiding his past.

He sighed, and dared to brush a dark curl away from her cheek. She slept on. If he wasn't going to be arrested….then he would fix this. He would fix all of this by coming clean….the next day. With Rittenhouse gone, what would be stopping him?

* * *

 _Still raining_ …. Wyatt's gaze dropped to his hands, holding tight to the window sill, and then up to the window again. He looked at his faint reflection in the glass with curiosity, as the tracks of the rain drops on the window pane could almost look like tear drops on his face, if he squinted just right.

 _Sheesh, maudlin much, Logan?_

That night….that second innocent night in a row they slept together….well, innocent except as far as his _thoughts_ were concerned…. He really _had_ planned to fix it….that very next day. Not that it had turned out that way.

He sighed, tracing the path of a rain drop with his finger against the glass, and then dropping his hand back to the sill. Although he had absolutely no evidence of it, when it came to his situation with Lucy, procrastination really didn't suit him. He wasn't one to put off until tomorrow….even things that _should_ be put off. Instead he was usually the reckless one running head on into something, without giving it another thought.

He brought his hands off the wood of the sill, and held them over his eyes as he turned around, leaning his back against the wall to the side of the window. And he supposed the fact that procrastination _wasn't_ a part of his typical style was yet another piece of evidence for just how fubar this whole thing had become.

That morning in his apartment, he'd plan to start the conversation there, in his bed…. But there had been an early morning phone call from Christopher, and they had travelled in to Mason Industries together, to learn more about the Rittenhouse arrests. That was when it had started sinking in….that they had achieved their goal. One more trip, to get Luce's sister back. That had been the plan.

Running his fingers through his hair, he turned back toward the window again, catching another glance of his reflection. He smiled, glumly. That had been a bittersweet moment for him. Lucy must have caught the darkening expression on his face, but she had assumed it was because of Jess. In fact, knowing that Lucy _thought_ he was thinking of Jess caused a slight wave of hurt in him—because thoughts of using the time machine to save Jess again hadn't been on his mind at _all_ in that moment. But the feeling had washed right through him, it hadn't taken over. Because sometime in the previous forty-eight hours—between the black site and putting away her board-he'd somehow come to terms with things. He would love Jess forever, and never stop fighting for her memory, for her justice….but it wasn't about changing history—it could never be.

No, Lucy was wrong. It wasn't a bittersweet moment because of Jess, but because one more mission meant just that….one more….and then the potential of losing Lucy. And that's what had him briefly walking that tight rope over the darkness again….but those feelings, had been short-lived. Because, whether or not she knew it, Lucy had reassured him that she wouldn't just walk away from him that day—with her gentle jibes, that bright smile that seemed to always carry a giggle at its edge….and then that hug…. She reassured him that this didn't have to be the end.

And then he'd made a mess of things by trying to start the conversation. And what was _wrong_ with him? He had told her months ago that he spoke four languages….apparently English wasn't one of them. And yet, even with him babbling like an idiot, she'd hung with him, still. He smiled, glancing briefly back at the bedroom door. Even after his piss poor job of trying to explain, he could still remember what it felt like—searching her face at his mention of possibilities—looking for her reaction, for her permission to continue. And it had been there, as she leaned in, and suddenly his mind was full of their previous kisses, and the excuses that followed, and he knew he couldn't deal with any more excuses—he had to be sure–so he'd pulled away briefly. And then he'd further mangled his pre-imagined speech about just what he meant by those possibilities….and he hadn't been eloquent….or even very clear….and what had he even said to her? Something vague and unhelpful….what was she supposed to think? And then the moment was interrupted.

He rested his forehead against the glass again. And what an interruption it had been….not one that he could have imagined….how could he have even imagined it?

It was such a mess. Because it wasn't supposed to go this way. He shook his head. Though tonight's events had proven that, even if there had been a delay in the proceedings, Lucy _had_ understood his ramblings that morning on the MI catwalk... But it was still all wrong.

Because Lucy's plan was supposed to have worked. But it didn't. Because of course they hadn't stopped it, they hadn't changed things. He hadn't freed himself….and he certainly hadn't helped her. Because not defeating Rittenhouse, and not stopping the time-travelling madness, was no doubt cosmically bad for the Universe, but, somehow, it seemed even worse than that….for Lucy.

Instead of being defeated, Rittenhouse had given them the middle finger—a giant middle finger.

And now, things were infinitely worse.

* * *

 _Thanks so, so much for reading everyone! Please tell me what you think-reviews are awesome!_


	21. Chapter 21

_A big thank you to all those who have been following and favouriting this story! I am truly honoured. And, of course, another big thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review so far—especially to my Guest reviewers who I can't thank personally, like Katy. Please consider getting an account, so I can respond to your lovely reviews!_

* * *

 _Oops. I screwed up the "small t" timeline between chapters 20 and 21—it's what happens when you don't write chapters in order, I guess. I'm going to change the last scene in Chapter 20, currently happening in the early morning, to the mid-to-late afternoon. The bulk of *this* chapter takes place in the late evening, early night._

* * *

 _From Chapter 20:_

 _He rested his forehead against the glass again. And what an interruption it had been….not one that he could have imagined….how could he have even imagined it?_

 _It was such a mess. Because it wasn't supposed to go this way. He shook his head. Though tonight's events had proven that, even if there had been a delay in the proceedings, Lucy had understood his ramblings that morning on the MI catwalk... But it was still all wrong._

 _Because Lucy's plan was supposed to have worked. But it didn't. Because of course they hadn't stopped it, they hadn't changed things. He hadn't freed himself….and he certainly hadn't helped her. Because not defeating Rittenhouse, and not stopping the time-travelling madness, was no doubt cosmically bad for the Universe, but, somehow, it seemed even worse than that….for Lucy._

 _Instead of being defeated, Rittenhouse had given them the middle finger—a giant middle finger._

 _And now, things were infinitely worse._

* * *

Chapter 21, AKA my AU Season 2:

An hour had passed, and she hadn't returned to Mason Industries.

And she hadn't replied to his texts.

Rufus hadn't seen her, and neither had Agent Christopher. He asked Christopher to contact Lucy's security detail….and she informed him that Homeland had told the detail to step down that morning, as they were no longer needed. He didn't miss the teasing tone in Christopher's voice when she made her next comment, about Lucy probably just being late because traffic was bad on the highway, and that he really needed to relax. And that comment prompted him to google any nearby traffic accidents with a whole new concern taking over his heart…. But there was nothing. So he sat, pretty much on his hands, feeling the dread build and expand inside him like an inflating balloon, and watching the clock tick off another ten minutes. Then he'd texted twice more and called once, without a response, before he allowed the realization to finally fill him, that, somehow, she was in serious trouble. And yet, how could she be? Trouble was supposed to be behind them, wasn't it?

What kind of errand had she needed to run anyway? Knowing he was probably acting irrationally, but wholly unable to stop himself, he yelled at anyone and everyone in earshot at MI to text him the minute she appeared, and then went out to the parking lot, got in his truck, and started driving. He treated it like a military op—tracing her common routes, targeting her known frequented locations—the bar they drank at after missions, the pharmacy she and Jiya went to every time they needed time-appropriate make-up, the diner they would grab a burger at when they returned to the present at 3am, still feeling like it was 5pm from a jump…. But there was nothing. Nothing.

Rufus had sent him Lucy's Mother's land line number. He called it. No answer.

He drove further afield, to the University….just moving up and down the streets, looking for any sign of her car. Still nothing. There was only one place left to look….and he knew he'd been putting it off, because what was he going to do if she _wasn't_ there? Sending her yet another text, and once again getting no response, he gritted his teeth and started driving toward Carol Preston's house.

He was only a few blocks away when his phone chimed—Lucy's chime. Thank God. He yanked the truck to the shoulder and screeched to a stop, ignoring the scandalized look he received from the woman walking her tiny dog that he'd come within feet of flattening. _Lucy was okay, she had texted him_ …..he opened the screen, reading:

*Make up excuse for Christopher. Need You. At your place.*

 _What? She was at his pl….. she need…._? He never let himself even complete the thought, instead throwing the truck in drive and making a hasty U-turn to get to his place as fast as humanly possible.

* * *

He threw open his door, calling her name—to be greeted by darkness, and silence. _What was going on_? He nudged the door closed and locked it, saying her name again, softer this time, and turned on a lamp as he entered the living area. Still no response. He scanned the empty couch, the empty chair….glanced toward the kitchen, seeing it was in darkness as well. He was about to go check the bedroom when he saw it—a tiny movement on the opposite side of the room, in between the far arm of the couch and the wall. He crossed the room in two quick strides….to see a figure curled in a ball on the floor, in the corner, in the dark….

"Lucy?" he whispered, kneeling down and giving the couch a shove to give them more space.

She didn't respond.

"Luce?"

She looked up slightly, just enough for him to see her red-rimmed eyes, her haggard stare…. He sat and pulled her into his lap, bringing his arms around her, and she started to cry. Not soft crying of sadness or remorse, but harrowing sobs of devastation that wrenched from her body—closer to screams than tears…. He held her tighter, kissing her hair, rocking her slightly, trying desperately to sooth her.

"Luce, Luce….talk to me….what is it?"

Still no response beyond the continued sobs.

"Lucy—I need you to talk to me….I need to know if you're hurt…..are you hurt baby—"

There was a jerking movement from her head that might have been an indication of no….but he had to be sure. He placed his hand under her chin, gently pressing up until their eyes met again. She stilled for a heartbeat.

"Lucy, are you hurt?"

A tiny shake of the head again, almost imperceptible….then she found her voice, "N-no. Not hurt. Wyatt, I—" her shoulders shook and the tears returned—different this time, less primal….but no less heart-rending. She dropped her head again against her folded arms, leaving him unable to read her eyes….hiding from him any more possible clues of what was going on.

He hugged her to him again, shifting slightly so that he could lean against the wall. She wasn't hurt….and that meant he could wait. She would tell him what was going on, what could have affected her so, when she could. He rocked her slightly again, smoothing her hair with his hand, holding her close.

They sat that way for nearly twenty minutes. She had tried to say something to him, a few times….but each time she had been overcome—her words blending with her tears until he could no longer make them out….and he would kiss her hair again, shushing her gently, telling her it was okay, it would wait.

After another few minutes, she tried to talk to him again. And this time she was successful.

To say the information had stunned him would be an understatement. His mind started trying to make sense of it, trying to connect the dots….because all of them on this mission were connected to Rittenhouse in some way, that much was clear….but Lucy was connected through her biological father, Benjamin Cahill, and— _How do you think her father met her mother, idiot?_ He didn't know what to say, what to do….and she was crying again, probably at his lack of useful response….or, no…. _don't be a self-centred ass Logan_ ….because of….just _everything_. Her sobs threatened to intensify and he held her tighter. She found her voice again—railing against her family, her history, her fate…. He just kept holding her, shaking on the inside….wanting to scream right along with her. Because she didn't deserve _any_ of this….none of it, at all. Her mother, her father…. _Him_.

He almost told her he was Rittenhouse too, right then and there—to get her to go—to force her to leave him, and to never look back. But he couldn't. She needed him, she trusted him….even when she shouldn't have. And she had shown him, by coming to his apartment that he was maybe the only person left that she trusted like that—and he couldn't turn his back on her….not that night. And he hated himself for that fact. But he once again pushed aside the Rittenhouse compartment, and allowed the Lucy compartment to fill his mind and heart and soul. And as happened every time he did this, he realized that, the reality was, _he_ was the one who needed _her_. Needed her to help him actually feel, to be alive….and to hope.

He had comforted her, as best he could, both with words and with just _being there_. Eventually, he'd been able to coax her onto the couch. She'd stopped crying, and before he could even ask what she needed, what he could do—she seemed to turn on an emotional dime. Eyes suddenly dry, she squared her shoulders and turned to face him.

"I need to go to Mason Industries. I need to tell Christopher everything I know."

She was all business now…..and it made Wyatt uneasy, to see her push all those emotions away….just like that. Sitting down beside her on the couch, he proceeded cautiously. "Well….that's a possible plan. But it's getting late, and they're busy with arrests…."

"She has to know….it could be important."

He nodded. "You're right. How 'bout I text her the basic info, and we'll go from there?" He stood again, trying to locate his cell phone. He found it after a moment, on the floor where he had dropped it at the first site of Lucy. Scooping it up, he was about to send a note to both Christopher and Rufus when he realized the significant number of texts he'd received since abandoning his phone…. He moved back to the couch, sitting beside her again. She must have recognized the look of new concern on his face.

"What is it?"

"Rittenhouse has the Mothership."

"What? No. How? We need to go back, tell them—"

"Hang on, I just sent a text, letting Agent Christopher and Rufus know you're safe….and the new….complication."

"But—we can't just sit here…."

His phone pinged and he held it up to show her. "It's Agent Christopher—telling us to do exactly that. They're dealing with the Mothership situation, she'll look into any info on your m—on Carol, but we're to hold tight tonight, and repot to MI tomorrow morning."

"No, we have to…." She trailed off, then started over, "I can't let my Mother….this is my fault, I should have—"

"No." He said emphatically, "Lucy the _last_ thing this is is your fault. Your Mother lied to you, there's no way you could have known. And you haven't even had time to process any of this yet….we need to….." he shook his head, "I don't know." He glanced over at her, and saw the tears threatening again. "I'm so sorry, Luce."

He tried to hold her to him as the tears started to come, but she pulled back, blinking madly….holding back the storm….until she couldn't any longer. As the tears came back, she leaned into him, seemingly giving herself permission to be vulnerable again. After a few minutes she calmed….sniffing and hiccoughing as she brought her head back from his shoulder, and met his eyes.

"S….sorry. I got your shirt wet."

He couldn't help but chuckle. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

She straightened, then, moving her body away from his….and returned to that all-business-Lucy, from earlier. "I don't know what's wrong with me….I shouldn't—"

"Don't," he put his hand on her elbow, "It's okay—I can't even imagine—"

"No, it's _not_ okay," she said. "I….I'm stronger than this...I don't want to be this way….here."

He stared at her in shock, then collected himself; facing her on the couch and moving his hand from her elbow to her knee. "Lucy…. First of all, you are one of the….no, you're _the_ strongest person I know….and after all my tours of duty, I know a lot of badass people." He didn't miss the way she bit her lower lip at that comment. "And, second of all….and this is really, really important—you never have to hide things, not in front of me. We're partners—teammates, right?

She nodded.

 _Partners and teammates who kiss and cuddle_ his mind supplied, but he pushed that thought back. "And, more importantly….we're friends….and we trust each other." He shrugged, absently rubbing his hand in a circle on her knee. "And what good is it having friends, unless you can show them how you're feeling...show them the real you? Cry on their shirt a little when you need to? He brushed away a single errant tear from her face.

She nodded again. "Okay."

"Good. Now….what do you need? What can I get for you?"

She shook her head, "N-nothing. Not unless you have a machine to turn this all into just another nightmare."

He scrunched his nose at her, "Why, 'cause you don't have enough excitement in your life with a time machine….you need a dream-state one too?"

She shrugged slightly, but remained still.

He was disappointed, he had hoped for a chuckle….or at least a smile.

"Speaking of dreams…." Not finishing his thought, he slowly moved sideways and stood, then went down the hall to his bedroom.

"Wyatt?" she called after him.

"Give me a sec," he answered.

He returned, carrying a bundle of clothes in his arms. "Your sweats from the duffle bag," he said in response to her questioning gaze. "More comfortable to sleep in."

"I can't sleep….not tonight."

"Well, try at least," he watched as she shook her head. "Humour me?"

She sighed, another few tears escaping, but she managed to stay in control this time. She stood on shaky legs and grabbed the sweats from him, moving down the hall toward the washroom. "Fine, I'll change….but only to humour you."

* * *

When she returned, he was back on the couch, a bottle of whisky and two glasses sitting on the coffee table.

"We're drinking?" she asked.

"Somehow seemed like a good plan," he said, "Especially if either of us is going to get any sleep tonight."

She sat down beside him, sighing, "Can't argue with that." She picked up a glass, angling it toward him, "Don't be stingy, soldier."

"Yes, ma'am," he shot her a sad smile, pouring her drink and then one for himself. He watched as she leaned back against the cushions, letting her eyes fall closed.

"We'll figure this out tomorrow….I promise Lucy."

She shook her head, opening her eyes as she took a sip of her drink. "I don't...I don't want to talk about it anymore tonight….I can't."

He nodded. "Okay." He took a sip of his own drink, trying desperately to think of a way to make it better, a way he could possibly ease her pain….

"Talk to me."

"What?" He wondered if it was possible he'd said that last bit out loud.

"Tell me a story, make me smile."

He watched her for a moment, until she turned her head, catching his gaze again as she took another drink.

"Please."

He nodded, "I can do that."

So he'd launched into a series of stories about life on a military base, and about the misadventures that always seemed to follow his team around during down-time in places far from home. He steered clear of stories of his childhood, stories of his Grandpa….anything that might bring her own mind back to…..Carol. And he'd been successful, in making her smile. He'd even made her laugh, just a little, talking about some of the outrageous practical jokes in camp. And he kept feeding her whisky, pouring a little more, whenever her glass was empty—just hoping it would help her relax….maybe even put it out of her mind….just long enough to sleep.

And when she finally did fall asleep against him on the couch, or more precisely passed out, he supposed—from a combination of a little whisky and a whole lot of emotional exhaustion—he lifted her up and carried her to his room, to tuck her into bed.

He sat with her for close to an hour on the bed, just making sure. Just making sure that—if she needed him—he would be there. Making sure that—if she awoke—she wouldn't be alone.

 _Lucy's Mother was Rittenhouse_. And he hadn't been able to warn her. And he _should_ have been able to….because he should have known….he should have been able to put it all together. Just that afternoon….he'd stood there, making a fool of himself, talking about possibilities. How ridiculous had he been then? Thinking that they'd done it, that they'd really taken out Rittenhouse….that he was free to carry on with his life. And now….

He should have seen this revelation coming. After all, he knew how Benjamin Cahill operated, and he'd suspected Noah, ever since Rittenhouse had stormed the secret warehouse so quickly after Noah had patched up Rufus. He wondered—had the Noah penny dropped yet, for Lucy?

But _he_ had been certain about Noah. And, if Cahill and Noah was Rittenhouse, then he should have been able to make that other link….that link that changed everything. It didn't take that much imagination to understand how a clandestine group obsessed with founding families and purity of the line might work.

But he hadn't seen it coming—hadn't seen Carol Preston coming. He hadn't made the link….probably because he'd been so bound up in the idea of stupid _possibilities_.

And now, that was another failure that was all on him. A failure that Lucy had taken the brunt of it. Yet another failure that had caused her pain.

He had turned his attention back to her, softly snoring beside him, in a deep sleep. He sat with her a little longer, just glad that this was something that he could do right for her this night….that he could provide her with safety, with shelter. Glad that she was hopefully finding some peace, in a night full of strangeness and sorrow.

Eventually, he decided that perching on the side of the bed and staring at her might be viewed by some—and probably even by Lucy—as creepy, rather than endearing. He also recognized that he'd be more good to her the next day if he got some sleep himself. He wasn't sure how to navigate the question of sleeping arrangements when she was unconscious…. Yes, they'd shared the bed the night before….but that had been her suggestion….and he didn't want to assume….

 _Crap_. Why was this so hard? They cuddled, they slept in the same bed, they'd even kissed….and he had no idea what any of it meant. And, given his speech from earlier that day….he didn't even know how to talk about it. But maybe that was the thing. The kisses, the bed sharing….the possibilities…. He was going to have to put a hold on _all_ of it, if he was going to stay sane….because he couldn't—he wouldn't—travel any further down that path with her before he told her the truth about him….about his Rittenhouse history…. But how could he ever do that now?

He watched her for another few minutes of indecision. He knew what he _should_ do….but the thought of getting out of that bed—of not having that contact with her—was excruciating. Eventually, though, he carefully rose from the bed so as not to wake her, grabbed the spare pillow, and headed back toward the living room.

* * *

Gently closing the bedroom door behind him, he had started carrying the pillow toward the couch. He saw a flash of movement by the front door in his peripheral vision. By the front door that had most definitely been locked. He turned toward the entryway, seeing the deadbolt turn….and the door swing open. The now most definitely _unlocked_ door admitted a woman he had never seen before….yet who seemed vaguely familiar. He dropped the pillow and went for his gun—too late remembering that he had taken it off while on the couch with Lucy, when she had complained about the cold of the metal against her arm.

He stood stock still watching, as the very familiar looking woman— _Crap, I know who this is—_ stepped inside, and closed the door behind her.

"Who are you?

"Spare me, Master Sergeant Logan, you know exactly who I am".

And of course, he did. He furtively searched for his damn cell phone….until he spotted it across the room, on his coffee table….beside his gun. _Okay, new plan Logan….STALL, 'till your brain can come up with something useful_ ….

"How did you open the….you would need a key…."

" _That's_ what you're hung up on here, Logan? A key?" she revealed a small key in her hand, waving it in his direction slightly. Do you really think that we need a _key_ to get to you?"

"Give me my key back."

"Fine, if it will make you feel better…. Here, have it," she tossed the silver key the short distance between them, and, not expecting the action, he barely caught it, scooping his hand underneath it just before it struck the hardwood.

"Where did you get it?"

She shook her head at him. "I am capable of having a key cut, Master Sergeant. I noticed it that very first day she added it to her keychain. I never asked, but I knew it was for your apartment. After all, by then she seemed to be spending more time here than with me. Still does, I suppose. And how do you think I'm supposed to feel about that fact?" The corner of her mouth turned up slightly, "Though….I probably can't blame her."

He glanced at the bedroom door behind him. "That key didn't belong to you." He knew he was practically babbling now, but he was trying to think, to figure out what his plan was here….or better yet, figure out what _her_ plan was here.

She shot him an incredulous look. "Really? And they told me you were bright. Let me teach you an important lesson here, Logan: My house….my key."

She took another step into his apartment, looking around with a casual air. She glanced toward the coffee table, at the whisky bottle.

"She never could hold her liquor. I hope you didn't waste the expensive stuff on her. I presume she's passed out in the other room?" She nodded her head toward the bedroom door. Wyatt shifted his body again—to stand in front of the door, like a barrier.

Carol Preston wandered into his living room, picking up the whisky bottle and examining it. She turned her head back to him and flashed a big smile.

"Interesting."

 _What the hell was that supposed to mean?_ And he didn't even know what to do with the fact that this woman was now wandering through his living room like they were old friends. He watched as she put the bottle down, and continued walking the length of the room—ignoring his gun and cell phone, but instead focusing in on his end table. As though suddenly having found exactly what she was looking for, she knelt down to examine a small stack of books on the lower shelf. She pushed the front three books to the side, and pulled out a large hard-cover tome from the back.

Lucy's Lincoln book.

She returned to her feet and turned around—with a delighted look on her face—displaying the book for him to see.

"A little light reading, Logan?" She arched an eyebrow at him, in a way that was so reminiscent of Lucy, it was almost frightening. "You really do have it bad, don't you?"

He moved sideways slowly, keeping his body between Carol and the door to the bedroom.

She set the book down on the top shelf of the table, and began walking back across the room toward him. She paused, when she was only about four feet from him….and from the bedroom door….and from Lucy.

"You can't have her."

She let out a short laugh. "I'm not here for her."

She took a small step back, and put her hands on her hips. "What do you think she'd say, to know I'm here?"

He stepped forward, hoping to cause her to step back again, further away from Lucy. But she held her ground.

"Get out," he said.

Wyatt allowed himself the brief luxury of mentally going through the various ways he could kill her right now—even without his gun. He was pretty sure there was nothing she could do to stop him, if he made the decision to snap her neck. In the second it took _that_ image to play out in his mind, he was struck by the utter madness that had enveloped his world. He could do it, he could break her neck, right here, in his living room, with her daughter sleeping on the other side of the bedroom door….and he had no frickin' clue how Lucy would feel about that. Although it certainly wouldn't make her happier….which meant it wasn't worth it. He wouldn't be responsible for causing her more pain. So instead, he stood his ground, glaring at Carol Preston.

"Get out?" she chuckled, "What? And leave before we even do our business?"

He tried to control the flash of surprise that he suspected she could see on his face.

"Lucy put Cahill and his whole network behind bars with your team's little stunt today. Surely you knew you'd be assigned a new handler? Besides which, I figured it was important to make sure that we're still on the same page. And, of course, given today's events….there is a new mission-new mission parameters—to be delivered by me, and accepted….by my asset."

Wyatt stepped back, as though hit.

She peered at him, a thin smile on her lips. "What? Isn't this the way this whole thing works? We meet, and you have to ask the question—you have to ask me for the new mission objectives and parameters. It really is all very cloak and dagger, isn't it? I can understand why Cahill might have enjoyed it.

He shook his head. "No. that's not what's going to happen. You don't get to make the rules. You don't even know…. _anything_. Lucy—she will destroy you."

Carol shook her head. "How? Having her dear old Grandpa collect info on us? Clever, I'll admit, but she's not going to destroy us!" She nodded slightly. "No, it's just a little rebellion, and we all do that." She inclined her head toward him slightly. "Well, I suppose _you_ don't. But that's the difference….between us and people like you. I always knew that one day Lucy would rebel. I will admit, she did it in rather spectacular fashion, but I wouldn't have expected any less from her."

"And what are all your Rittenhouse buddies going to think of this….of what your daughter was able to do?"

He wasn't expecting the laugh that flowed easily from Carol at that comment.

"Oh, Sergeant Logan. I'm not particularly sad to have Cahill's faction under wraps for a few years! And neither are most of my closest associates. You know, in many ways, it's worked out well."

"What?"

"I told Lucy earlier, how proud everyone is of her!"

He stared at her.

"What, you really don't think we're all one big happy Rittenhouse family, do you? You know enough about history by now to know that there are always factions in the groups that matter….always scheming and machinations. Always differing opinions on who is really in charge….or who should be." She nodded in his direction. "Like I said, we all had to thank Lucy's team—your team—for cleaning house for us. Ethan Cahill—he was never truly trusted….he never rose high enough in the hierarchy to truly understand the scope of things….he wasn't prominently enough placed to be able to identify anyone beyond _his_ father's faction."

She turned slightly, seeming to look in curiosity at Wyatt's living room again, then turned back to face him. "You know, matching me with Cahill….that was supposed to bring the two bickering sides of Rittenhouse together. So much for that thought! Though apparently, all it took was our daughter to wipe one whole side of things off the proverbial map for a while….which to me seems much simpler, than bringing us together, don't you agree?"

Wyatt stepped forward again, and was relieved to see Carol take a small step back, conceding him another foot of safety between her and the bedroom door. "So," he began slowly, "Tell me Carol….if you and Ben were supposed to bring everyone together….solve all of Rittenhouse's woes….why wasn't Lucy aware that Cahill was her biological father? Why didn't you two secret society pawns just live happily ever after?"

"Pawns! I think you hurt my feelings, Wyatt." She looked appalled for a moment, but then her facial features grew calm. She shook her head. "Why not just live happily ever after, you ask? Because Cahill's been a screw up his whole life. I mean, _of course_ I refused to marry him. The rest of it….well, it's how it works, when you're Rittenhouse—same as it's worked in the noble classes for centuries. Produce your strong blood line offspring, and then...do what, or who you need to do to live your life, to make you happy. There was never any chance I was actually going to _marry_ Benjamin Cahill." She shrugged. "Even though he certainly begged me enough. But, I wouldn't expect someone like _you_ to understand these things."

"Wait, so….you and Cahill….when you _knew_ that you weren't going to—"

"Oh—don't give me that scandalized look, Wyatt. It wasn't even that big deal, in the eighties." Now, my Mother, Lucy's Grandmother? Now _she_ was one for scandal. Mid-1940s Atlanta—Southern belle, you know. Had to marry her Rittenhouse match, back then. But that didn't stop her! She'd bring her _multiple_ lovers over to the house….and her doting husband would serve them drinks before….well, you can imagine." She smirked at him, smoothing her hands across her jacket. "Preston women, and the men who love them, eh?" She nodded her head, "But then you know something about that, don't you?"

They stared at each other, for another beat.

She seemed like she was about to say more, but didn't. Instead, she seemed to have made a decision to bring things back to business. _Just like her daughter would_.

"So, the question remains…. What are we going to do with you? We left Cahill in charge of you too long—he was never cut out for asset management. I'd actually laid the groundwork of taking over your portfolio a couple of months ago, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you can imagine….lots of boring paperwork." She smiled sardonically _._ But it wasn't all bad. In fact, I just took a little drive up the coast!

Wyatt's face went pale.

"I had a lovely visit with your grandfather. Fascinating man, 98 Years old—and still has most of his wits about him! And can he ever tell a story."

"You're bluffing. He would never have admitted you as a guest."

She simply grinned.

Suddenly Wyatt realized that this was bad….this was _very_ bad.

"Oh, you mean the instruction you gave him not to admit guests who said they worked with you? He mentioned that to me! Good thing that wasn't the direction I had decided to go."

She paused, and they stared at each other for another moment. Eventually, he watched as a small smile played at her lips. "No, I didn't tell him we worked together. Instead, I told him that his grandson was sweet on my daughter, and that I had heard _so much_ about him, I just had to come meet him.

Wyatt took what he hoped was a menacing step toward her.

"Well, It was all the truth, wasn't it? Whole thing went really well—he even said you had mentioned Lucy a couple times, in your phone calls." She smiled, "Um, that reminds me, he said to let you know that he's expecting the two of you to stop by together to see him, sometime in the next couple of weeks."

The anger that had been building in him since she stepped through the door bubbled over, "If you do _anything_ to—"

She rolled her eyes. "Get over yourself Wyatt. Do you actually think I'd kill a ninety-eight-year-old war hero….member of the greatest generation…..before the two of _us_ even had a chance to talk? What do you think of me?" she paused, gazing at him for a moment. "No, don't answer that. But," she continued, "It would be a shame….if something untoward _were_ to happen to him. And don't doubt that it would. You know….if it became necessary."

"Shut up."

"Or….." she stretched out the syllable, seemingly with relish, "I could always just pay him another _friendly_ visit—he seemed lonely, you know. Maybe I could talk a bit more about his grandson's adventures. I bet he'd be fascinated to hear about your role in that German compound fiasco a couple years back, don't you? I wonder what he would think about what you've been doing."

"Don't even," he knew he shouldn't, but he glanced again at the door behind hm.

She chuckled darkly, and he knew he'd played his cards too openly. "Or, even better, do I just tell Lucy about it? I _know_ she'd be interested….attempted kidnapping of innocent children, to trade for not-so-innocent political prisoners…. I mean….can you imagine what she'd think?"

Wyatt was surprised when she seemed to suddenly relent. She shook her head, shoving one hand in her pocket. He checked off a box in his head—now he had noted one of _her_ weaknesses. He continued to watch her, not speaking...willing her to reveal more.

She dipped her chin quickly, "But then again, Lucy can be so sensitive about these things. She'd probably decide it was somehow all my fault-blame me. No," she nodded silently, "The better move would be to keep it simple, to just tell her who's been signing your checks the past seven years."

He stayed silent for a moment, "And what if I no longer care about any of that? What if I don't care about keeping that secret?" _Check_ , he thought….possibly mate.

But she only laughed. "You know, you really should work on your lying." She started wandering again, peeking into his kitchen, taking another turn around his living room…. _and why the hell wasn't he stopping her_?

She returned, to stand in front of him again. "I know you think poorly of me, but never doubt I love my daughter."

He scoffed.

She inclined her head toward him. "You know, it's one of the reasons I knew I couldn't watch _this_ situation from the sidelines anymore….I knew I had to become _personally_ involved."

" _Personal_ involvement from you," he mimicked. "Who knew you held me in such high regard."

"Oh Wyatt," she sighed….you really have no idea about the issues you've caused me, do you?"

He shrugged, "Then why don't you enlighten me?"

"You know," she began, "Looking back at how Rittenhouse had done things in the past…I always thought that I could do it better….thought that I _knew_ better. I mean, especially the 'let's tell the kids when they're 17 thing'. Ugh. Do you have any idea how belligerent and irrational a 17 year old can be? So I promised myself that I wouldn't do that with my Lucy. I'd wait longer to tell her. I'd let her get her schooling, experience life a bit in the real world…. Even let her meet Noah first—with a little well-timed machinations by our two families, of course, so that she felt like she had some control—that she had actually "chosen" Noah. You know how that girl is, when it comes to being in control. Yes I was very careful….and very proud of my grand plan, of how I had done things _better_.

But then here you come, and put a wrecking ball to it all in only a few months. I mean….seriously Wyatt! You chase Noah from the stage; you make sure she believes Rittenhouse to be some generic monster-in-the-closet—all before she even gets to experience it!" She laughed, lightly. "I mean, 'argh!', right? Well, you certainly taught me some humility, with regards to my belief that my grand plan in introducing my daughter to the family responsibility and privilege was somehow the _better_ way. And the worst part? You do this—all of it— _while_ you're working as an active asset for us!" She combed her fingers through her hair, "Argh indeed….that really was some incredible trick, you know."

"I had nothing to do with _any_ of that—Rittenhouse showed their true colours, and Lucy turned away from it. She's smart, she's compassionate—and she saw right through your Rittenhouse façade. Your plan failed because she's too good for Rittenhouse….too good for you."

His voice raised on the last statement, and the words seemed to ring in the space between them. It made him feel better, that he had said it—until he realized that his words had caused no overt reaction on the woman's face. It made him nervous. He needed to stop the movement of the conversation's focus toward Lucy….and deflect Carol's thoughts back to him, instead.

"If you truly thought I was responsible for destroying what you had worked for….you would have just had me removed from the situation entirely. I don't doubt you could have."

She continued to gaze at him, the corners of her mouth rising into a tiny smile. "Oh, there were plenty of opportunities to kill you, of course; and plenty of reasons to do believe me—those _reasons_? I've considered every. Single. One of them. I'm sure Noah would have done it, if he had the stomach for that kind of thing."

"Noah's a jackass."

She chuckled, "Maybe he is. But I heard you were ever so rude to him, when he was patching up your dear friend Rufus...that was really uncalled for. But he did try _so_ hard to get you fired….kept coming to me for advice on the subject…." She shrugged, slightly. "I said I'd help him of course—but, what I didn't tell him—and the reason that I didn't just have you killed—is that I actually think this _thing_ , she looked meaningfully between Wyatt and his bedroom door, "It's cute."

He looked at her in confusion.

She flashed a tiny smirk at him. But we're getting side tracked here, aren't we? Let's get back to business. I think you have a question for me.

Wyatt's head was spinning, what could he do? He couldn't stop this….not right now, not when Lucy was in the next room….not after the day she had had.

"Wyatt, your question?"

 _Unless_...

"You know what," he began, "You've managed to overlook yet another problem with your grand plan here—you, _Rittenhouse_ , you no longer have the authority to order me around."

She laughed, "Why? Just because your Agent Christopher is doing a Rittenhouse round-up? I assure you, the orders I came to deliver to you tonight have still come through the official channels. I have all the authority I need."

He shook his head, "No, you don't. Because General Villenueva was nabbed in the sweep first thing this morning."

She smiled at him again, and it terrified him.

"Do you honestly believe he was the only general in Rittenhouse? Those duties were re-assigned to another General almost a full hour before Villenueva was even arrested."

He looked at her, incredulous.

"What, do you want me to show you the Memorandum of Notification? Oh wait….you don't have the clearance to see that, do you? Because of your _place_ in the grand scheme of things….which is something you shouldn't forget."

"You know what?" he heard his volume rising, and tried to control it. He couldn't wake Lucy, not now. "I don't care who the orders are coming through….or what your memorandum says….because, you know what? I'm done. I'm out. Do you hear me? I'm no longer one of your precious _assets_."

He was stunned, when she began to laugh.

"You think this is funny?"

"I do, I do. That's the beautiful thing, isn't it? Because we _both_ know that you will fulfill your primary assignment, no matter how you want to bluster about it now. Well…. _I_ know. And you'll know that too….as soon as you officially ask and get to hear the orders.

His anger was reaching a critical point….and yet he knew he couldn't risk waking Lucy. So he channeled the shout that had been about to spring from him into a low growl. "No." he shook his head, "I'm out," he repeated, "Kill me if you want to—"

She cut him off with another chuckle. "And why would I have you killed—when, no matter what, you're going to do exactly what we want you to do, exactly what _I_ want you to do? Oh, this is rich. I really do have to thank Cahill for choosing you for this mission….if I see him again. Really makes things easier, cleaner, you know?"

"Yeah, well if you know how this is all going to go….why are you even here?" he took another step toward her, and she backed another step closer to the outside door, further away from Lucy.

"I told you….I want to do this officially."

"Yeah, well, that's never going to happen. So just….get out. Now. Get out of my apartment, because I refuse to hear the orders."

Her smile faded, and was replaced by a stern glare.

"Look, Logan—no more playing around. I'm here to deliver your new orders. If you're not ready to hear them yet….well…." she glanced around the apartment again, her gaze coming around to rest on Wyatt for a beat, and then flicking meaningfully toward the bedroom door. "Well….I'm happy to wait here, until the morning. Then you, me, Lucy….the _three_ of us, can all have a nice, long chat." She clapped her hands together. "I could make waffles!"

His head felt like it was spinning again….what the hell was he going to do now—it was only by some kind of crazy luck that their rising voices hadn't already woken Lucy…..but if Lucy woke in the morning, to find her mother _here_ ….he couldn't let that happen. There were no _good_ options….and he was running out of bad ones.

"Name the mission objectives," he finally spat out.

But Carol just kept staring at him, an expectant look on her face.

He stared back.

She shook her head, "What, I don't get a ma'am? And I was looking forward to it, too." She winked.

He started toward her, stopping momentarily as she raised her hand.

"You really do need to relax, Logan. The objectives—they're nothing too strenuous, I assure you. The primary mission, as you've probably guessed, is to protect Lucy. You've proved rather adept at that, before. It really is sweet, the way you try to take care of her….like you'd care for a family member….does she know how badly you've fucked that up in the past?"

He glared, his hands balling into tight fists.

She shrugged. "So….the secondary mission—ensure that Emma is successful in at least….let's say twenty-five percent of her missions." She looked at him sternly, then tipped her head to the side and smiled again. "You know what? Maybe even only fifteen percent to start would be acceptable….I wouldn't complain about that.

He shook his head.

She sighed. "You know Wyatt….it's about time you faced up to some facts. Lucy is going to come back to me….come back to Rittenhouse. Even now, with all her anger…. _Let_ her focus all that anger on me….it just means she won't even notice what she herself is doing….what she herself is becoming. Because that's what Rittenhouse _really_ is, you know-it's birthright. And birthright like that doesn't just disappear. Rittenhouse is power, it's privilege….it's _control_." She paused, and that word seemed to reverberate around the room. "And we both know how Lucy feels about that—she seeks it out, she can't even help herself—"

"What did you do to your daughter?" he spat in an angry whisper. "Did you actually _plan_ that accident—"

She rolled her eyes. "You really should see someone about that paranoia, you know. No, I did not cause my daughter to have an accident….you don't think she sought control in her life before that? It's been a part of her since she was born….a part of her personally….it's genetics," she paused again, and smirked. "Her birthright….see what I did there?"

"Shut up...this isn't funny."

"You're right about that….it's very serious. This is my daughter's _life_ we're talking about. So, as I said, she will return to Rittenhouse, and to me. You know, I'm not the monster you think I am….I love my daughter….she is my legacy." She took a step toward him.

He stood his ground, and remained silent.

"Which does bring me to another question. Are you in love with her?"

He stared, stone-faced. He kept every. Single. Compartment. nailed down….so that they couldn't betray him.

She nodded quickly, as though she had somehow seen something she was looking for in his response. "Hm. Well, what makes it so nice is….she thinks she's in love with you. A bit of puppy love, of course….I guess you could say my daughter has a bit of a crush on you. But….you must know that she could never truly care about someone like _you_ , right? Still….it turns out I actually like knowing you're there, to protect her in this chaotic time." She pursed her lips briefly, as though making a decision. "So...if you play your cards right….you could stay with her…..once she returns to the fold. I'd allow that. Presuming, of course, that you respect the proper order of things."

"The proper order of things?"

"That she and Noah will be having a child together, preferably more than one."

"No, she won't." He shook his head. "You're wrong. You're…. _insane_. Lucy won't ever do that….she's not going to…..have children with….or _marry_ some guy she doesn't know….just because you tell her to….or just because Rittenhouse tells her to."

"Of course she will—their children will be her legacy, as she is mine. And it's not like she has to marry him—although the group is really looking forward to it. What better than a royal wedding to bring some cheer into a stressful time? But, if that's not what she wants, then who am I to judge, since I made the same decision—not to marry the father of _my_ child—so many years ago."

"She's never going to do anything you want her to again!"

She seemed to scrutinize him for a moment, then she gave a derisive snort. "Why not? Because she's _mad_ at me? Really, Logan? It's a minor bump in the road of our relationship….I assure you. Should have seen my reaction, when I learned about Rittenhouse. I _know_ my daughter, and I raised her to think with her head, to do the sensible thing, to build her reputation and to do good works through that. Even as a little girl, even as a teenager, she knew she had a purpose….she didn't let herself get sidetracked by emotion-lead _dalliances_ , she pointedly looked at Wyatt. At least, never for long.

"You….you _destroyed_ her," he hissed motioning toward the bedroom door. "How could you do that to your own daughter?"

" _I_ destroyed her? And what do you think _you_ did….that night you came banging on my door, in the middle of the night? Telling her you were going to get Jessica back. Forsaking her, leaving her-and her life-to the whims of the fates….just so you could chase after your wife."

Wyatt was stunned. He opened his mouth, in an attempt to speak….but it seemed impossible. Realization of what had happened hit him hard in the gut, just as he forced out the words, "How do you know...?

"I heard the whole thing, of course."

"That was a _private_ conversation.

She rolled her eyes. "We've been through this already, Wyatt. My house—my conversation."

"Yeah, well you don't get to talk about that—that's between us, we've already—" He broke off, realizing he didn't owe _Carol_ any explanation….he was dealing with what he had said to Lucy on that staircase every day, and even though he had tried to describe to her, to apologize to her, and even though Lucy had forgiven…. Just thinking about it still caused him pain. Yet here Carol was, laughing and teasing when what _she_ had done…. He shook his head in anger at the woman in front of him. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

She arched an eyebrow at him, _again_.

You actually seem to be enjoying this, it's like you take some sick delight in damaging your daughter."

She rolled her eyes. "Please Wyatt, I like to think you know me better than that."

"I don't know you at all."

"Really? Because I think the two of us actually have a lot in common….so if you don't know me….maybe you don't really know yourself."

He shook his head. "You're delusional. After what you did to her….her whole life! And telling her now….without any concern for her….you….you're a…. _monster_." He pulled the shout back to a quieter growl again. "How could you lie to her, hide this, hide everything, from her, like that?"

"Wow, Wyatt. Want to think back over the words you just said? You know as well as I do the lying's not the hard part; it's figuring out how and when to come clean….figuring out how to escape the lie while still protecting your interests. Or…." he watched as she raised that damn eyebrow again, "Before someone else forces your hand."

He could feel himself going pale, and he stepped away from her.

We're really not that different; you and I….and I think you know that.

"You just keep telling yourself that…."

She chuckled slightly at his comment, and his bravado suddenly faded as her words echoed in his brain, circling back in on him again.

The chuckle faded, but she continued to smile.

"Don't think so much Wyatt," she stepped toward him, grabbing his chin between her thumb and forefinger.

"All the worry lines will mar those pretty features."

He jerked away from her, as she turned without another word, and left

* * *

Wyatt stood in the hallway, just staring at the spot where Carol Preston had been standing.

Protecting his own interests…. _was that really what he was doing?_

But he was trying to do what was best for Lucy, wasn't he?

What's best for Lucy. _And what exactly is that, Logan?_

The truth was what she needed, what she deserved. But to tell her now, tell her today—that couldn't be what was best, was it? Or was he just telling himself that, because it made it more convenient to protect his own interests, to protect himself?

He took a step back, leaning on the wall beside the bedroom door. He _wanted_ to tell her now….he really did. And that wasn't protecting his own interests. But, was that truly best for Lucy? He closed his eyes and clenched his muscles, then slowly willed his body to relax, willed his racing heart to slow to something approaching normal again.

Opening his eyes, he knew he had to _see_ her, to find his centre, to calm his mind again, so he quietly turned the knob and swung open the bedroom door. She was still sleeping soundly on her side, facing the doorway. He took another step closer, seeing how peaceful her face was in the light from the street that filtered through the window. Peaceful. So different from earlier that night.

He peered closer, realizing something had changed. Her face that had been so calm a moment earlier seemed to tense and twitch, and then she began to thrash, the covers becoming tangled in her arms.

He rushed to her side, then paused, not sure if he should let the dream pass on its own or wake her-concerned that waking her could frighten her even more.

Her eyes were still closed, and she calmed. _Maybe the dream was gone_? Then there was a sob like from earlier that night….and she called out his name….and then the thrashing started again.

That made his decision easy. "I'm here, I'm here Luce….s'just a dream, you're okay." He moved closer to her, continuing to murmur soothing words, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She half-opened her eyes. He met her gaze and moved his hand to stroke her cheek.

She whispered "You're here."

"I'm here," he replied, "I'll stay here 'till morning….with you."

She closed her eyes again, curling tightly against him.

"You're safe, Luce. Get some sleep…." He realized she was already asleep again, calm again.

He shifted slightly, and stroked his hand through her hair. And his mind drifted back to his thoughts from much earlier that evening. She needed someone to trust….and she had picked him. When he told her the truth….who would she trust then? And right now, so soon after learning about her mother….what would that _do_ to her, to tell her about him? He was thinking of what was best for her, by not telling her now. Or was he still just protecting himself? And what was _wrong_ with him—that he truly couldn't tell the difference between the two things anymore?

* * *

 _So, nothing too original in my "Lucy just found out and what does she do next" part of the story….but I had a whole lot of *fun* writing the Carol part of this chapter. I really want to know what people think! Please consider using the box to tell me—anything at all…..because apparently, I'm needy when it comes to reviews!_

 _Also—rather weirdly—a line from the Sound of Music slipped in somehow….I decided to leave it, once I figured out that was why it sounded so familiar….because it really did seem to fit! Bonus points if you noticed it!_


	22. Chapter 22

_Super-quick chapter coming—just didn't seem to fit when it was attached to the next chapter's content!_

* * *

 _From Chapter 21:_

 _She half-opened her eyes. He met her gaze and moved his hand to stroke her cheek._

 _She whispered "You're here."_

 _"_ _I'm here," he replied, "I'll stay here 'till morning….with you."_

 _She closed her eyes again, curling tightly against him._

 _"_ _You're safe, Luce. Get some sleep…." He realized she was already asleep again, calm again._

 _He shifted slightly, and stroked his hand through her hair. And his mind drifted back to his thoughts from much earlier that evening. She needed someone to trust….and she had picked him. When he told her the truth….who would she trust then? And right now, so soon after learning about her mother….what would that do to her, to tell her about him? He was thinking of what was best for her, by not telling her now. Or was he still just protecting himself? And what was wrong with him—that he truly couldn't tell the difference between the two things anymore?_

* * *

Chapter 22:

The rain continued to pound against the window as he gazed outside, searching for answers amongst the sparkles of the streetlight on the wet pavement. A fragment of thought from that night, not so long ago, repeated in his brain— _he truly couldn't tell the difference between the two things_. He closed his eyes, unconsciously pushing the window's lock open and shut. And here he was….still trying to figure that out. He wasn't just a selfish prick, protecting his own interest….was he? He wanted what was best for Lucy….didn't he? He pressed his forehead against the cold glass pane, grateful for the coolness against his skin. Maybe….usually. Maybe usually he was thinking about what was best for her….until tonight. Tonight….he hadn't acted in her best interest….and he'd most definitely been considering his own….there was no denying that. And now he had to _fix_ this. But what did it mean, in this circumstance, to do what was best for Lucy? _You really are a selfish prick, Logan_ he chided himself. Only Lucy could decide what was best for her, and he knew that….but he was holding back the information she needed to make that decision….and that was on him….that was _all_ on him.

"Wyatt?" her voice was a whisper from just behind him.

Had he really been so deep in thought that she'd been able to sneak up on him? That was….dangerous. And probably telling. He pushed that thought away for examination, later.

Gripping the window sill for a second longer, he pushed the negative thoughts back down into their compartments, until he was filled again with only thoughts for her. And he turned, meeting her eyes with a smile—a real, true smile. A smile that turned into a tiny bit of a choke, when he realized she was wearing his old Astros t-shirt….and nothing else. He composed himself quickly, as she asked,

"Why are you out here?"

"Hey—just came out to check the windows….'cause of the storm. Did I wake you?"

The ease with which _that_ lie came shocked him. But why should it, when he had been lying to her since the night he had met her….and lying to himself for years? _Lying truly was one of his specialized skills, wasn't it?_

She smiled back at him. "No—I….I was cold, and then realized you weren't in bed…." She trailed off, seeming shy for a moment.

Then he saw something in her eyes set, as though she'd experienced a new wave of confidence. "I guess I missed you."

Another true smile captured Wyatt's face, a smile that then felt like it had somehow turned to liquid, and filled his whole body. "Well, we can't have that, can we?"

And he crossed the small distance between them to hold her in a tight embrace—an embrace that quickly became more heated as she started working kisses along his neck, moving upward until her lips finally captured his. He shifted, drawing her impossibly closer, as the kiss turned searing, and he ran his hand along her cheek, and then tangled his fingers in her hair. He loved how her body seemed to melt into his; accompanied by a soft hum from her that was like something out of a dream. He knew he could never get enough of _this_. In that moment….the only moment that could ever truly matter….the only moment that mattered to _him_ ….he felt whole again—all was right with the world.

Then she slowly pulled away from him, her hands running down the length of his arms until her fingertips brushed against his—and he sought them out—twisting his wrists to bring their palms together, and meshing his fingers with hers. He stared at their intertwined fingers, and his darker compartment—the one filled with Rittenhouse and lies, hopelessness and betrayal—suddenly let lose, the feelings slamming back into him with a force that threatened to overwhelm him—

She smiled at him then….and that was all it took to send the darkness away….and he barely remembered what it felt like.

"Let's go back to bed," she gently tugged him in the direction of the bedroom door.

He gave her fingers another squeeze, and nodded.

"Just….just let me get this," he turned away, and moved back to the window. Fingers digging into the sill, he willed away the tears that had sprung to his eyes from the warring emotions that filled his being.

With all apologies to his Grandpa, he now recognized his own truth. All that he was fighting for...was her. Protecting her safety….protecting her sanity. _That_ was his mission, his life. Of course he loved her, but somehow….it was even more than that. And that was why he had to tell her….had to come clean...but how could he do that and still protect her? How could he do that to her….now?

"Wyatt?"

He dipped his head, his peripheral vision confirming that she hadn't yet returned to the bed, that she was instead hovering at the bedroom door….waiting for him. And that simple act….her waiting for him…. It pushed his next action….the only conceivable action, to the front of his cluttered mind with a fierce clarity. He _would_ fix this….he would find some way to tell her. But not now.

He slid the window lock back into place. "Coming, ma'am." He twisted away from the window, and returned to the bedroom….to her.

Because, right now, she was cold….she was missing him.

 _And it was one problem at a time._

* * *

 _So definitely not the ending!_

 _I'm using this tiny little chapter to close my flash-back framing device….but the story will continue in a straight-forward linear narrative fashion, from this point. It's probably considered sloppy writing, to make a quick change like that….but I think it is *so* much better than just leaving the story here, right?!_

 _Part way through writing this story, it hit me how heavily influenced it was by some of the older—antique?—vintage?—Star Wars fics I had read, where Han Solo was actually an Imperial agent and/or spy. Sadly, I don't recall the names of the specific fics or authors—but a huge thank-you to those writers for inspiring this fic! I loved reading those stories, but found myself sometimes wishing I could *un-read* them, all at the same time! Because – gah! – how could he be a part of any of that? So, in a weird way, I hope some of you feel the same about this story!_

 _PS—Guys, Season 2 is only 8 more sleeps!_


	23. Chapter 23

_Author's Note:_

 _Well hello there! Somehow, it's been over six months since a updated this tale. I promise the next update won't take as long!_

 _As a reminder, we are now firmly in 'Season 2' from a plot perspective, but as the bulk of this story was written before Season 2 aired, any hint of canon compliance stopped with S1E16. So our Time Team is still housed at Mason Industries, with a wonderful wardrobe dock of costumes to suit their time-travelling needs. Also, chapter 22 saw the conclusion of the flashback that began in chapter 2, so we are moving forward in time now, after Wyatt and Lucy's first night together._

 _A special thank you to OnceUponAWhim for betaing this chapter and the next, and for helping me find the tone of this piece again! Without your help, who knows when I would have ever gotten this thing posted!_

* * *

 _From Chapter 22:_

 _With all apologies to his Grandpa, he now recognized his own truth. All that he was fighting for...was her. Protecting her safety….protecting her sanity. That was his mission, his life. Of course he loved her, but somehow….it was even more than that. And that was why he had to tell her….had to come clean...but how could he do that and still protect her? How could he do that to her….now?_

" _Wyatt?"_

 _He dipped his head, his peripheral vision confirming that she hadn't yet returned to the bed, that she was instead hovering at the bedroom door….waiting for him. And that simple act….her waiting for him…. It pushed his next action….the only conceivable action, to the front of his cluttered mind with a fierce clarity. He would fix this….he would find some way to tell her. But not now._

 _He slid the window lock into place. "Coming, ma'am." He twisted away from the window, and returned to the bedroom….to her._

 _Because, right now, she was cold….she was missing him._

 _And it was one problem at a time._

* * *

Chapter 23:

 _Six Weeks Later_

And here he was. Or, more specifically, here they were. Because, after that night? They _were_ a they, in every sense of the word. Because it felt right—and in many ways it _was_ right….except for the lie of course. And could anything ever truly be right again in his life until that was dealt with?

They'd never talked about it—becoming a _they_ —they just _were_. Which probably wasn't the healthiest way of going about things….and definitely meant that he hadn't had any easy opportunities to come clean about his past. There's been no ' _Hey Lucy, if we're gonna give this relationship thing a go, there's something I should tell you!'_ conversation. Nope…..there was none of that.

Before? Well Wyatt would have said it would be impossible for the two of them to be together without first telling her everything about his ties to Rittenhouse. Apparently he would have been very mistaken….because not only was their status as 'couple' possible, it was very much happening. And there were times that it felt like a runaway locomotive to him—something that needed to be stopped so that he could come clean, needed to be stopped before any innocent people….namely Lucy…..got hurt. But most of the time? Most of the time Wyatt was just….happy. Happier than he had been in six years. Happier than he'd been in twice that, if he were truly honest with himself. He'd go days lost in the bright sea of his newfound happiness….until he would remember. Remember what needed to happen, what he had to do. But there were always….reasons. Reasons why it wasn't the time, wasn't the place….reasons why he would tell her tomorrow, or maybe the next day.

But, even on those days when he remembered that he had to come clean? He could still pretend. Pretend that he wasn't a part of the legacy that seemed bent on destroying her, that he wasn't somehow at the heart of the Universe's betrayal of Lucy Preston. Because he could let his Lucy compartment fill his being until he could pretend it was all okay, okay for him and okay for her. And he could do some other pretending too—pretend that, when he told her about his Rittenhouse association that she would find it in herself to forgive him. He clung to that pretence hard in those early days of their relationship.

It was a new world—in more ways than one. Because it was Emma that was driving their missions now, and chasing Emma was nothing like chasing Flynn had been—less brutal but more conniving, less explosive but more subtle….and it was hard for Wyatt, or for any of the team, to wrap their heads around her plans. Then there was his new world with Lucy— _his_ Lucy now. Stumbling half asleep to his apartment after a mission to fall asleep together on the couch—or the bed. She spent more time at his place than hers, saying her government-provided secured apartment had never felt like a home anyway….leaving the implication that his apartment _did_ feel like a home unsaid….but still clear as crystal. On days when Emma decided to grant them a brief reprieve from chasing her through time, they would watch movies, go for drinks with Rufus and Jiya, buy groceries….just _normal_ couple things. He'd even managed to convince her that hiking could be fun, if you weren't being chased by the French and wearing heavy multi-petticoated dresses. She turned out to be a wonderful companion on the trail—spinning stories or just quietly enjoying their togetherness. He even took her camping a couple of times—and had managed to convince their security details to back off for a night or two while they were in the back-country. Turned out Lucy Preston actually enjoyed sleeping….and doing other things….under the stars. As long as he did a perimeter check for spiders first.

During all of this, he watched as Lucy was slowly learning to deal with her mother's….announcement. And he'd helped her as best he could—listening when she needed to talk, holding her when she just needed to be held. She hadn't seen or heard from her mother since that day—Carol's house and office at the University were both locked up, deserted—the University said she was on sabbatical. Lucy hadn't said if she was concerned or thankful for this disappearing act-Wyatt suspected it was a combination of both. He knew it had been difficult on her—the disappointment of the mission to save Amy being put on hold yet again, and all of the questioning from the government about her mother….and about her. Because no matter what influence Agent Christopher possessed, the government still presumed that if her mother was involved, then so was she. So they questioned her-again and again. Different agencies, different inquisitors, repeating the same questions over and over again-questions from complete strangers that effectively amounted to asking Lucy who she really was.

But through it all, she remained stoic, brave….she remained Lucy. Except when she wasn't. Except for those nights when, so run down by the missions, by the questioning about her family, and about her past that wasn't even her past….at least not the one she remembered, she allowed her own doubts, her own anxieties, to catch up with her. And Wyatt knew he was the only one she allowed to see this version of her. During _those_ times? Well it was during those times that Wyatt knew his purpose—formed as clearly as his other purpose had been that night in the black site detention centre. It was his purpose to remind Lucy Preston of who she was—regardless of her family, of her past….it was his job to remind her that all of that had nothing to do with her—and to remind her of her true self—the best parts of herself. And it was a purpose he took seriously, that remained number one on his list of battles to be fought, until finally the government questioning slowed, and then disappeared. The distrust of her dissipated, and Lucy emerged-worse for wear, but still standing on the other side….in this new life where she accepted her mother's role in Rittenhouse, yet was determined to continue the fight against the shadow organization nonetheless.

For Wyatt, the oddest thing through all of this was that Carol Preston had not only disappeared from her daughter's life, she'd disappeared from his as well. There were no more messages, no more contacts….not since that first night when Carol had surprised him at his apartment with orders. In fact, there was complete radio silence in his life as far as Rittenhouse was concerned. Which helped him to ignore it….to pretend his past with them wasn't real.

Of course, he was still, _technically_ following their orders. He protected Lucy with everything in his being on missions. Never because Rittenhouse asked it of him….but because she was his everything, and he could no sooner stop himself from protecting her than he could stop breathing. From the very beginning he ignored that other part of Carol Preston's order from that night that now seemed like a vague dream-he had never, ever done anything to actively help Emma….but damn if that woman wasn't successful more than twenty percent of the time, even without his help.

At first, with Rittenhouse silent, and his nearly unrecognizable new reality of Emma missions and being with Lucy….somehow it made things _easier_ for Wyatt. It made it easier for him to accept himself, despite his past. He didn't feel as consumed by the self-doubt, by the guilt. Probably because those 'hope' and 'Lucy' compartments of his mind had been thrown open so widely that there wasn't any room for the blackness. There wasn't any room for any thoughts beyond Lucy, his team, and their mission against Rittenhouse.

At least at first.

But as the days turned into weeks, occasionally, in the quiet of the night, those darker compartments would come roaring open again, shoving the Lucy compartment aside, and reminding him of who _he_ really was. In those quiet, dark moments, his conscience would assail him, and by choice he allowed his most dangerous thoughts and feelings to truly let loose.

Because what the hell was he _doing_? What was he doing, being in a relationship with her when he was hiding something so important?

He'd tried, he really had….after that visit from her mother, his new _handler_ ….he'd tried to distance himself from Lucy—to keep things just business between them. But she seemed relentless in her desire for something more—and how could he resist? He'd never been in full control of himself….not when it came to her. It was his greatest weakness….and he knew it—he knew it even then, that first night together. Yet still, even recognizing the danger, it was as though he gladly dove into the deep end of it.

 _Why?_

It was a total lack of self-control, of course….but what had caused that? After pondering that very question as his darker compartments swirled….he knew. It was arrogance and foolishness, pure and simple. Arrogance and foolishness that lead him to believe that….even after everything he had done….that somehow he had the right to hope….to hope for a better tomorrow. Even though he _knew_ he didn't have the right to hope for that...not after everything he'd been a part of….everything he had taken at face value when he was younger, everything that he didn't question…. Yet he still had hoped-hoped for the future, and hoped that somehow he could be a better man. And he hated himself for it—for that weakness. Because it was that frailty that had allowed him to drift so far into Lucy Preston's orbit that he didn't know how to escape her gravitational pull….and worse yet, he didn't _want_ to escape it. He'd even let his ego tell him that he deserved this….and what had the result been? That he would add to-even multiply her pain, her anguish, and he couldn't even bear to think about that. Because what would she think, after everything—her sister, her father, her mother….what would happen when she learned about him? During those darker nights, he wanted to scream the truth at her….to warn her, to get her to run far away from him—far from the pain he would no doubt represent in her life in the very near future….and yet…. _It was too late for that, wasn't it_? He knew he was in way too deep….Lucy was in too deep too, and she didn't even know it yet.

And that was all on him.

So, what had he done? Probably destroyed the most beautiful soul he'd ever known….someone who truly cared about others more than herself….someone who was stronger by tenfold then she let herself believe….someone who seemed free of ego, free of spite….someone that he loved.

Someone that he loved….if he could even let himself think about things like that. If the compartments in his brain could even allow him to conceive of something that big ever again. If you were even allowed to use that word, when you had betrayed someone so badly. And he knew that with certainty—that he had betrayed her.

But even on those nights, eventually, he would nod off, her body warm beside him. And in the morning? As dawn's light slid lazily through the blinds of his bedroom? He'd awaken to the feel of her fingers tracing paths through his hair, and warmth would flood through him. And he knew peace in those moments, a peace that would last through the day, because those dark compartments had closed, supplanted again by his wide open hope and Lucy compartments. And he was happy again.

* * *

One such happy morning, he watched her clearing away their breakfast dishes-and without really knowing why, he felt concern fill his heart. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, fine," she said, turning to smile at him briefly before she went back to her tidying.

He appraised her for a minute. Something was…. _off_. "Luce?" he questioned.

She sighed, her smile fading, and he stepped toward her reaching his hand out to run his fingers along her arm. A moment of quiet passed between them, and then she said "Do you know what day it is today?"

The question took him by surprise, "Um, Thursday? No….we were in 1784 on Thursday, so, Friday, I guess."

She raised her eyebrow. "Actually it's Sunday….but that's not what I meant." She chewed at her lower lip. "It also happens to be March 26th." As she paused he began grasping for the significance of that date in his mind—but came up with nothing. As though reading his thoughts she said, "I don't think I told you the specific date before….but it's the anniversary of my," she dipped her head, "Accident."

He waited a moment, expecting her to continue. When she didn't , he grasped her hand, lightly tugging her toward the living room, toward the couch. She acquiesced, moving quietly beside him until he stopped, and with another gentle tug on her arm, guided her to sit. There was another moment of silence. He waited, somehow knowing that she had more to say.

Eventually, she spoke again. "Fifteenth anniversary, I guess," her voice was nearly a whisper.

He waited, but she didn't say more. She seemed like she wanted to talk, but he also didn't want to push her into it. Scratching at the back of his neck, he made his decision. "What….how do these anniversaries make you feel?"

She looked at him intently for a moment, as though considering her response, then ducked her head, picking at a thread on the couch. "Different things on different years, I guess," she lifted her gaze back to his. "Depends what's going on in my life. Last year? I remember spending a lot of time trying to….reason through what it all meant—fate, choices. Would I always have ended up Time Team, was that my fate? Was it my fate to fold to my mother's wishes, to stay with history instead of my band? Did I not really have the choice?"

Wyatt put his hand on her knee. "And now, how do you feel today?"

She sighed. "I'm wondering if maybe I did have that choice after all, and then what would have happened if I said 'no' to the history path. I mean….would I have missed all of this? Or….I guess more likely the band would have failed within the year, and my mother would have pulled strings to get me back in school….and maybe I would be right back here."

He pulled her in for a hug, but when he released her she remained against him, with her head on his shoulder.

"Or what if it was actually worse?" she said.

"Worse?"

"What if, by taking that year off to try music as a career….what if it gave my….mother….time to, I don't know—indoctrinate me or something, into Rittenhouse. What if I was still put on the team, but I was actually working against you and Rufus? What if I was working for them, instead?"

That had struck a nerve, and he rushed to reassure her. "No, Lucy. That never would have happened. She'd never be successful, making you one of them—you care too much about other people to let that happen. We'd still be a team, just trying to do….the right thing. No matter what."

She straightened then, drawing herself back to a sitting position. "I hope so."

"I know so," he said, trying to convey his certainty about that fact through his voice, his expression—never wanting her to doubt herself. He grasped her hand. "Besides, we don't even know if Carol was _one_ of them, in our original timeline…."

"But my father still was."

"Your biological father….and you know that dick's got nothin' to do with you."

She gave a slight smile. "I do think I've heard that before."

He nodded. "And you know what? If Carol was Rittenhouse even in our timeline….same thing goes. In all those other potential timelines? Wouldn't have mattered. Even if fate had ordained you to be part of the Lifeboat crew because of your Rittenhouse ancestry….you would have always made the _choice_ to do good with that fate….to use it to fight against Rittenhouse."

She squeezed his hand.

"And besides, if you'd joined that band after all—I bet it would have been super-successful."

She shook her head at him.

"But even so, I think you still would have found yourself part of the Time Team," he continued.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, a slight smile playing at her lips. _God, she was beautiful, inside and out_.

She chuckled then, "And what _exactly_ would have been the reasoning for including a musician in the Lifeboat crew?"

He grinned and shrugged. "Well, it'd never be a _bad_ idea to have a musician on the team."

Her smile grew. "In case what….the team found themselves in a vaudeville show during the thirties?"

He chuckled, "Maybe needing a travelling minstrel in medieval Europe? Or a Hollywood musical star in the forties?"

"A bagpiper at Culloden."

He smiled at her as she played along. "You play bagpipes?" he asked.

"No," she shrugged.

He winked.

She laughed.

"Alright," he said, standing, and extending his hand to her. "In honor of choices made and those abandoned, or at least postponed….you choose how you want to spend this Sunday."

"What do you mean?" she quirked an eyebrow at him.

 _God he loved the expression that overtook her face whenever she was intrigued_. "Exactly what I said. You choose what to do today—don't worry about what anyone else wants, what anyone else thinks….. Presuming Emma doesn't jump, what happens in the next eight to twelve hours is completely your choice. Because there _are_ a lot of things in our life right now that we seem to have no control over….so take the opportunity today."

He watched as she appraised him, likely trying to decide if he was serious.

"I mean it Preston, what are we going to do with the day?" He paused, then give her a smirk. "Unless of course you'd rather I not be a part of your day….that would be a choice too, I guess."

She lightly slapped his shoulder. "Nope—you're not getting out of this that easy."

"Get out of what?"

"Amy used to drag me to amusement parks when we were younger….and even as an adult, a couple of times. I would always tell her there were more necessary things to be doing with my time….even though I always enjoyed myself…." she trailed off, seemingly lost in thought.

 _Amusement park_. His stomach was already churning at the idea-the Lifeboat wasn't the only ride that never failed to make him nauseous. But she obviously knew that….

"So I choose to go ride roller-coasters for the day? And you're coming with me."

"I am?"

"You are. Know why?"

"Because you want to see Master Sergeant Logan tossing his cookies on a kiddie ride?"

She laughed, that beautiful lilting musical laugh that never failed to make him smile, then she winked. "You know, there is this magical thing called Dramamine." She giggled again, and then stilled-suddenly serious. She sent him an almost-shy smile. "But that's not the reason. You're coming with me, because I _choose_ you."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

She nodded. "Because in every timeline….in every fate….in every choice….I choose you."

Her earnestness with that statement caused an unexpected stir of emotions, and he felt his eyes well with unshed tears. He stepped toward her, hands on cheeks, and kissed her hard. "Me too," he croaked out-trying not to give in to the tears. And he was almost successful, until he suddenly realized there were tears on _her_ cheeks—and then he knew it was a failed battle.

Even in the midst of her tears, she gave a quiet chuckle. "Thank you," she said.

"For what?" he asked, "Reducing us both to tears?"

"Nothing wrong with a good cry," she responded. But no—I meant….this whole anniversary thing….well, thank you for always showing me the other side of the coin, of my thoughts….thank you for helping me find my….balance….in any situation."

He glanced down at the floor, not sure how to respond to her admission, yet not wanting to leave it there. When he looked up again, he realized there were a few more tears on her cheek, and he reached toward her, brushing them away with the back of his hand. "It's the same for me, you know. You always bring me balance, make me….better." He paused then, trying to organize his thoughts, then took a breath. "And you know what? Today _is_ an important anniversary."

She looked at him in mild surprise, not understanding the trail his thoughts had taken.

He kissed the back of her hand, hoping to reassure her of his intentions. "It's an anniversary of something bad….something scary that happened to you—something that has shaped the way you view things, for sure. But," he paused again, making sure he had her attention—he needn't have worried, her eyes were glued to him, an expression of anticipation on her face. "But it's also an anniversary of something wonderful happening—of you being saved. And that….matters, Lucy—it's _important_. Because the world needs Lucy Preston….because you're amazing."

He watched her draw her lower lip between her teeth, a slight flush of color on her cheeks.

"Of course," he began, watching her expression closely, "I need you too."

She released her lower lip and drew him close, kissing his forehead, his cheek, and then his lips. She drew back then, still enclosed in his arms, but stepping back enough to match his gaze.

"What would I do without you?"

The emotion roared within him again—the warm and inviting emotion from his Lucy compartment—the hope, the love, the trust, the faith. She needed him. And….more than that, she _wanted_ him….she _chose_ him. And how long had it been since someone had done that?

Even with the Dramamine, the day had not been Wyatt's definition of fun- _but she wanted him there, so there was nowhere else he'd rather have been_. Amazingly, he found the sentiment still rang true after a particularly rough coaster ride when he finally lost the battle with his stomach and he found himself having to stumble to an out-of-the-way flower bed to empty its contents.

Still, he'd slept soundly that night in her arms, content—until he awoke with a start in the early hours of the morning. Suddenly alert, he scanned the room for any sign of what had awoken him, listening for any sound out of place….but there was nothing. Lucy mumbled something in her sleep, and burrowed closer against his side. He wrapped his arm around her, tracing patterns along her shoulder blades. Gradually, his thoughts circling in time to the movement of his fingers, he was able to put words to his feeling of unease. The darkness was back, swirling through him again, and creating an unspecified anxiety about what was to come, deep in his being.

Lucy snuggled even closer against him, and he stopped the tiny movements of his fingertips. He forcibly pushed the darkness aside-to shove it back into the compartments where it belonged. Believing he'd been successful, he closed his eyes and turned on his side and brought his arms back around her shoulders again to hold her tight against him. A thread of joy wrapped itself around his heart and he smiled to himself. Because if someone like her could care for him….then surely that meant there was something about him that was worth redeeming….worth saving….and that his hope for a better future wasn't completely foolish.

But without warning the darker feelings took over again. And he released her from his hold in surprise. Because she did care for him….she thought she _loved_ him….except she didn't know the real him. The Wyatt Logan she thought she knew didn't actually exist. If she knew the real him, if she knew what he had done, who he was working for….she would never feel that way about _that_ Wyatt Logan, she could never feel that way about _him_. She would hate him.

* * *

 _A/N Thanks so much to any readers who stuck with me through the wait and are still reading-it really means a lot to me! Please consider reviewing!_


	24. Chapter 24

_From Chapter 23:_

 _He forcibly pushed the darkness aside-to shove it back into the compartments where it belonged. Believing he'd been successful, he closed his eyes and turned on his side and brought his arms back around her shoulders again to hold her tight against him. A thread of joy wrapped itself around his heart and he smiled to himself. Because if someone like her could care for him….then surely that meant there was something about him that was worth redeeming….worth saving….and that his hope for a better future wasn't completely foolish._

 _But without warning the darker feelings took over again. And he released her from his hold in surprise. Because she did care for him….she thought she loved him….except she didn't know the real him. The Wyatt Logan she thought she knew didn't actually exist. If she knew the real him, if she knew what he had done, who he was working for….she would never feel that way about that Wyatt Logan, she could never feel that way about him. She would hate him._

* * *

Chapter 24

Over the next few days, this pattern of alternating light and darkness during the night seemed tied to increasing flashes of guilt and remorse that would wash across him during the day as well. Although not as overwhelming as the darkness that swirled at night, these flashes still gave him pause...and were far too familiar to him. At the time, he didn't think about it….but in retrospect—he knew these flashes of guilt were a sign that he had been losing control of those darker compartments in his mind. There were other signs of this loss of control as well—signs he should have noticed, warnings he should have heeded... but as always seemed to be the case for him….they were signs he'd studiously ignored.

Lucy sometimes, often really, identified these darker moods in him—she noticed when he'd pull away from her, lost in thought. Sometimes she would ask him if he wanted to talk….and he would always decline. She seemed to understand that these dark flashes were about him, never about her….and she would allow him the time he needed to pull himself out of it—to centre his energies on chasing the guilt away, pushing it back into those compartments where it belonged, until he was able to revel in happiness with her once again. He cherished her all the more for that understanding of him that she possessed….but he still couldn't bring himself to talk about those feelings, or his dark compartments, with her.

Sometimes, during his struggles with the darkness, he would catch her looking at him, full of worry, and an insane thought would pass through him-he wondered if it was possible that she somehow _knew_ somehow—that she knew about him and Rittenhouse. _But she couldn't, could she_? If she had she would have said something, right? She wouldn't still be here….she would _never_ have invited him into her bed in the first place….even though it had been _his_ bed….but she had initiated it-and weak man that he was, he had followed along with her advances gladly.

More and more often, when the darkness consumed him, he thought about what would happen when he _told_ her. What would she think about this lie of omission….the same that her mother had committed, he realized. And that was the thing, wasn't it? Somehow, as time had passed, as he'd given in to his weaknesses, as he'd tied himself to Lucy Preston's star….it was no longer the act of being a Rittenhouse asset that damned him the most. It was the lie of not telling her.

If only he had told her earlier—during the Watergate mission perhaps? What better time would there have been for honesty? Then it would have been water under the bridge after 1754. Yet he hadn't said a word then. Because he hadn't _trusted_ enough. Not that he didn't trust Lucy or Rufus….he had always trusted them….but he hadn't trusted _himself_ enough, hadn't trusted what he brought to this team that mean so much to him. He had believed that they wouldn't see anything left preserving in their relationships once he told them the truth, that they would ditch him immediately-and he hadn't been able to bear the thought of returning to the man he'd been without them. So he'd said nothing, even though he'd _known_ what he was a part of. He'd known since the first time Lucy had uttered the name _Rittenhouse_.

He should have said something then too, when she first said the name. He certainly should have said something the moment Agent Christopher had shown him the picture of Ben Cahill, told him he was Lucy's father. That hard evidence staring him in the face that his suspicions had been right—the hard evidence of the danger he himself posed to Lucy. With that hard evidence, he should have said something. But still he'd remained silent. He had convinced himself that they would win—that they would best Rittenhouse soon, and then it wouldn't surely it wouldn't matter….but of course that hadn't happened.

So he remained silent. And most strange of all? Even with the increasing flashes of darkness….he was happy. _Happy_. Wyatt Logan was happy for the first time in so long….and how could he give that up?

 _There are things more important than your own happiness, Logan_.

Well, there was the one thing, really. There was Lucy. And for her sake….he knew he had to risk giving up that happiness….he had to tell her.

And that was how he'd found himself, hours after returning from a mission, standing in his apartment, staring at a picture of Grandpa Sherwin….and knowing the time had come. He would tell her—that night.

He'd been preparing dinner-been mid-vegetable slicing-lost in thought about the meal he would make for them, and the conversation that had to follow, when she called. She'd gone to her apartment, bent on finding a specific book to locate any potential change caused by their most recent mission that had been….messier than she preferred. He wiped his hands on his jeans and fished his phone out of his pocket, holding it to his ear.

"The universe is playing some kind of sick game with me, right?" she'd stated, without preamble.

"What do you mean?" he asked, a panicked tremor moving through him.

"Pipe burst at my apartment—probably days ago, the water's been just….sitting."

The fact that the game the universe had chosen to play with her today actually had nothing to do with maintaining the space-time continuum, shadowy organizations bent on creating a new world, or…. _him_ ….but was instead a comparatively mundane plumbing issue took him some time to process. Eventually, he managed to ask, "Days ago? How much water are we talkin'?".

There was a pause, then, "Not as much as you're probably imagining. Apparently the landlord believed there was some sort of problem and shut the water off to my apartment after a few hours….but for some unknown reason wasn't concerned enough to contact me about it." There was a pause then on the other end of the line, then he heard her sigh. "He's here now—brought in the plumber. The water's been taken care of—now I just have to clean up the mess. The parquet floors are toast—"

"You hated the parquet anyway, right?"

There was another pause; this time he could almost _hear_ her grin in spite of herself. "Yes, yes I did. But Wyatt, the thing is—it's all those _books_ we moved from my office at the University."

He thought the use of the word 'we' was generous, given that he didn't remember her lugging any of those boxes up the three flights of stairs, but he held his tongue on that, instead saying, "Yeah?"

"I'd left them on the floor….some in loose stacks, many still in cardboard boxes…. Well, a lot of them are goners."

He tucked his phone between his ear and his shoulder, turning off the stove and sliding the vegetables into a bowl to place them in the fridge. "I'll be right there to help clean up—should I bring a pizza?" he asked.

He heard her sigh. "Yeah, sounds good."

* * *

"Well, I've seen worse," he said, placing the pizza box on the kitchen table and surveying his surroundings.

"In a war zone?" she asked, looking up from where she knelt in the living room, going through the books.

"Yeah," he nodded, kicking at a loose piece of flooring as he crossed the space toward her. It jumped off the toe of his shoe, skittering several feet across the living room until it settled in a heap with other loosened floor bits. He put a reassuring hand on Lucy's shoulder. "Guess it's good the place was sparsely furnished….and with furniture that didn't belong to you."

"Do you think the government will bill me?"

He scoffed as she stood, brushing off her jeans. "If they do, I've got some other things I'd like to bill them for…."

"I bet," she muttered, turning again to survey the room.

"Pizza or clean-up first?"

She looked around the space, and back at him. "Can we finish with the books first? I've only got one more box to sort. I'm airing out the ones that are salvageable over here," she indicated a line open books spread over the coffee table and shelves that she had moved against a wall. The landlord brought a bunch of plastic tubs over—I put the books that are too far gone in a couple for the trash. And somehow, a couple of boxes of books stayed completely dry—I've already put them in those other plastic tubs," she indicated the stack with her chin. "If you could move them to the office area-"

"-Sure," he said, moving to grab a box, but paused when he saw a shadow cross her face. "Luce?" he asked.

She shook her head, "I'm fi—" before the word was out of her mouth her face fell suddenly, and he saw tears start in her eyes. He straightened quickly and crossed to her in a quick step.

"Hey, hey," he said, pulling her into a light embrace. "No time machine shenanigans, no massive shifts in timeline, no big deal, right?"

She lifted her head from where it had found rest on his shoulder, a few tears streaking down her face. "I know, it's just…. The books were from my….other life….my life before. And it just seems like that life keeps getting taken away, piece by piece…."

 _Of course_. He held her tighter. "I know. I'm sorry." He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, as he heard a muffled sniffle. He'd been about to tell her that it was all going to be okay-anything to see her smile right now-but how the hell could anything be okay right now? "I'm here," he murmured instead.

"And it's not even just the books," she continued. " _What_ am I going to do? Before he left the Landlord said I can't stay here until everything gets fixed—"

He cut her off, "You're going to stay with me, officially, that's what. I mean, it's silly anyway, us maintaining two apartments, I mean our Christopher-ordered security tails are on top of each other every night….mine has been on me for weeks sayin' he knows a way we could save the government thousands. Not that that matters, the security or the government money, because it _doesn't_ matter..." _Why are you babbling Logan?_

"What?" she said then, pulling back her head until she found his eyes.

"I mean" he began, suddenly less sure of himself, his brain catching up with the words that had tumbled out of him, "Only if you want to…."

She looked up at him, eyes wide, stepping back slightly from his embrace. "Did you….did you just ask me to move in with you?"

He bit his lip slightly—he hadn't even been aware of having asked that loaded question, not in those kinds of terms, when he'd said the words. He'd just recklessly ploughed ahead with what made sense, with what he _wanted_. Because of course it was what he wanted, but surely it was impossible-and made absolutely no sense- until he came clean about his past…..but how could he take the question back now? _This was insane, tell her to get as far away from you as she can_. But instead he took a breath, "Yeah….I guess I did."

Lucy stared at him a beat. And he was sure that his recklessness had suddenly cost him big time—that he'd unknowingly barged right through some heretofore undefined boundary for her—

And then the wind was nearly knocked out of him by the force of her body wrapping around his. How someone so tiny could create such force and pressure he had no idea, but he returned the hug, laughing in relief. His relief was short-lived though.

"I love you," he heard the quiet voice, muffled against the shoulder of his shirt.

And that familiar catch in his throat returned, blocking any response he might have given—the one that appeared whenever she said those words. Forcing air to move through his vocal chords he managed a slight scoff.

"You're just glad to not be homeless," he deflected, finally succeeding in producing some sounds of speech.

Even though he knew that by now she must have been painfully aware of him actively avoiding saying those three words back to her, she allowed the deflection. And she actually chuckled.

And he felt horrible. Because he _did_ love her—so much it hurt….but there was no way he could say those words, no way he could do that to her until she knew everything about him….until he deserved to say those words, until she was wanting to accept those words from him—when she understood everything she didn't yet know about him. But the joke was still tactless, so as she pulled back, looking into his eyes, he tried again at something more meaningful. "Did you just agree to move in with me?"

She nodded slowly, a grin spreading across her face. "I did."

"Well."

"Well indeed," she stepped back into his arms, running her hand over his shoulder and up his neck to tug gently at the back of his head, pulling his lips down until she was able to claim them with her own. And all thoughts of his deception, his weakness, flew from his mind to be replaced with only thoughts of _her_ as he traced her lower lip with his tongue and she opened eagerly to him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her impossibly closer, moving his mouth against her, combing his fingers through the hair at the back of her head, until finally they parted, the need for oxygen overtaking them both. When he opened his eyes, she was staring at him, a mischievous grin on her face. She slid the outside of her hand across his cheek, then suddenly stepped back, breaking the contact, all while chuckling lightly.

"Okay. Well, now that that's settled, start moving those book boxes into the office soldier, I want some pizza."

He smiled. "Yes, ma—"

"—Ah, ah, ah….none of that now. Save the yes ma'ams for later."

He waggled his eyebrows at her. "You promise?"

She laughed again—the sound music to his soul—and she lightly smacked his shoulder. "Boxes. Then pizza….then your... _our_ apartment. _Then_ the yes ma'ams. That's our order of go for this evening. And don't even bother with the puppy dog eyes routine—I'm not changing my mind."

He shrugged and winked, watching as she turned back to the stacks of books, picking one up to open it against the coffee table to help it dry. _God-he could get lost in her_. Even just in something as mundane as picking up books. He shook his head and with a wistful sigh, pulled himself back to the job at hand. He moved toward the nearest large plastic tote, hefted it up, and began walking toward the office space.

He could _feel_ the grin spread wide across his face—hell, he almost gave in to a bizarre desire to skip to the office. Lucy was moving in with him, officially. A warmth flooded through him that he was pretty darn sure was called joy—though it certainly wasn't a familiar enough feeling for him to be sure in his identification. Delight, bliss, elation….exultation…. could have been any one of those, he supposed. But he didn't care what it was called, just knew that he wanted it to continue. And with Lucy by his side, he felt hope spread through him that it was actually possible for this to occur. _Hope_ , his mind lingered on that idea, just as he crossed the hallway. _Hope_.

 _Hope had burned him in the past._

Without warning the darker compartments of his brain burst open again—shoving away the positive emotion, doing their best to take hold in his brain. Hope was something he didn't deserve….not after everything he'd done...not after everything that had happened….not with what he was keeping from _her_.

He stopped in the doorway to the office and forced himself to calm, forced himself to breath. It had shocked him, the suddenness with which the black compartments had forced their way in. It had been a while, he mused, since they'd overtaken him like that during the day….had been since, well…. He glanced back toward the living room where he could distinctly hear Lucy humming a cheerful melody; it had been since their first night together, really. He shook his head, clearing the negative swirlings back to the corners of his mind. Because he was going to tell her, he would come clean….and then what happened next would depend on her, wouldn't it? It would be her choice what happened. Just like that day at the amusement park.

He exhaled slowly, pushing the dark thoughts back where they belonged, ignoring the wisps that remained lose. He had a job to do for Lucy, and focusing on being able to do anything—even something as small as putting away some books—for Lucy caused a return of the positive feelings from a moment earlier, and he let them fill him eagerly. Nodding to himself, he walked into Lucy's apartment office.

The office, thankfully far enough from the burst pipe that it was still dry, was nearly devoid of furniture except for two items. A rather sad looking plastic book shelf that had a definite lean to the left and housed a few books, some paper, and a plant that appeared to have not been watered in a few weeks, and Lucy's desk—brought from her office at the University, it was the only piece of furniture in the place that she actually owned—that was hers. A large cherrywood antique she had purchased for herself years ago on a whim, she had told him once-and he remembered the smile that had crossed her face when she said that, _it was hers_. That memory made him doubly-glad the water hadn't reached far enough to cause any damage to it. He scanned the otherwise empty room and walked to the far side of the room, placing the tote down in the corner. Absently wondering about the best place to put her desk at his place—at their place—he pried the lid from the tote, planning to transfer books to the shelf.

As soon as he pulled up one corner of the lid, he realized his error. A noxious odor of wet, mildewing paper wafted up at him as he pulled the lid all the way off to reveal a collection of damp, damaged, and practically decaying volumes. Apparently _this_ was the tote meant for the garbage. _Shit_.

He closed his eyes, pushing himself back away from the foul smell and the bin. When he opened his eyes again he saw— _no, that wasn't right_ —he blinked hard, but the rough-hewn stone walls and darkness surrounding him remained.

 _He knew this place_.

The musty stench, the dank humid air….and four of his men huddled with him in the corner of the basement, listening to the voices and the creaking of floorboards that sounded from above.

There wasn't supposed to be anyone there in that house, it was supposed to be safe for them—they'd been duped by a local informant, and now they were trapped. Skin feeling clammy, his vision swam for a moment and he blinked again, suddenly face to face with that kid—McMann. That idiot kid, too green to have even been on that mission, too cocky to have possibly imagined the horror that would happen next. _The kid was speaking to him_. But suddenly there was a rumble in his ears, and then it turned to a roar. McMann was still speaking. Wyatt strained to hear the young soldier's words—maybe if he heard there would be some way….some way to save him. But the harder he tried to hear his words, the louder the roaring in his ears, the harder the pressure in his chest until he was gasping for breath.

There were hands on him then, grasping at his shoulders, then at the sides of his face, and the roaring in his ears subsided until he could _finally_ make out the words—"Wyatt? Wyatt?" But it wasn't McMann.

"Lucy," he choked out, opening his eyes to her kneeling beside him on the floor—how had he ended up on the floor? He took in another gasping breath as he tried to make sense of the emotions swimming through him, and he grasped for her hand. She squeezed it then, and he was finally able to centre himself, calm himself.

"You okay?"

He forced his gaze up to hers, seeing the concern etched across her features. He covered her other hand, still on his cheek, with his. "Yeah," he said quietly, shaking his head to clear away the last vestiges of his vision. "Okay, s'okay." He smiled at her weakly.

"Wyatt." She turned the hand on his cheek to grasp his hand, and moved their hands together in her lap. "Where did you go?"

He sighed. Of course she would know—she always did see right through him. He stood, gently tugging at her hands until she was standing there beside him. "Ghazni Province." He shook his head. "That….that hasn't happened to me in a long time, full-on like that—with images and sounds…. I don't know," he motioned at the tote with his chin, "Maybe the smell or something?

He watched as Lucy's gaze swung toward the tote, and she stepped toward it, closing the box-pressing on the lid to seal the edges-then stepped toward him, her gaze kind but still expectant, waiting for him to tell her more.

He bit at his lower lip. _Trust her not to just let this go_. But what was there to tell, really? He knew she didn't want to know about the content of the flashback, that wasn't what she was looking for….she wanted to know what was going on inside his _head_. He sighed, "I….I hate it, when it happens. It's like you can't trust what real—you don't even know if you're awake or asleep or then or now….or if anything is going to be okay ever again."

She moved even closer, a breath away from him now. "You _are_ okay. You're here, now, with me." She kissed him gently then pulled back to look in his eyes, grasping his hand and bringing both their hands to rest against his chest, above his heart. "And this is real," she kissed him again, softly.

Her words, her nearness—it was all that he needed….everything that he needed. He returned the kiss, gently at first, then increasing its insistency. She parted her lips, deepening the kiss, as he released her hand at his chest and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her closer.

Once they had released each other for air, she turned them, so that his back was to the wall, and she started walking backward slowly, never letting go, bringing both of them toward the centre of the room. "And this is real," she paused in their walk and kissed his cheek, then his chin. She took another step, "And this is real," she kissed his neck, then his collar bone. Another few steps, and their movement was halted by the desk. She looked back at it, startled, then returned her gaze to him. With what Wyatt could only describe as a sly grin and a twinkle in her eye, she began to undo his shirt. "And so is this," she followed her fingers with her lips, placing kisses down his chest

He let out a ragged exhale, his world dwindling to the woman in front of him, and nothing else. There was no past or present, no time at all….just her. He tipped his head down, nose in her hair, and whispered, "What'cha thinking?"

"Hmmm?" she asked, still working at a button on his shirt.

He chuckled lightly, pressing a quick kiss to her hair, "Just seems like you had a bit of a lightbulb moment there, professor," she paused in her efforts with his shirt at that, peering curiously up at him in what seemed a losing battle to appear serious, the corners of her mouth twitching ever so slightly upward.

"Care to share?" he grinned back.

She flashed him an extremely good replica of his own sideways smirk. "Easier if I just show you."

His mind short-circuited a little then as, last button undone and shirt open, she pressed her lips against his stomach, just before she straightened, grinning at him. He matched her grin then, and before she could respond, grasped her hips to lift her up until she was sitting on the edge of the desk. He stepped between her legs and pulled her tight to him for another much more heated kiss.

She broke away from him, peppering kisses along his neck and then stopping, bring her eyes up to his again. He gazed at her-those wide eyes, her kiss-swollen lips….and found himself yet again in awe of this woman-his Lucy. Wondering yet again how he had ever managed without her. He watched then as she scooted herself backward on the desk, pausing as her back struck a stack of file folders filled with notes. If there was any hesitation in her mind, he didn't see it, as she quickly twisted at the waist and shoved the files off the desk to make room-the papers fluttering to the ground. A box of paperclips, two post-it notepads and a plastic pen caddy soon followed suit. He smiled, leaning toward her and wrapping his hand around one jean-clad calf as he slid off her sandal with his other hand, then repeated the motions to remove her other sandal, very aware of her gaze on him. He slowly ran his hands along her long legs until they came to the waistband of her jeans. He made a show of twisting sideways to gaze over the desk then, at the newly paper-strewn floor, then pulled his eyes back to hers, nearly losing himself yet again in their caramel depths. He willed himself not to fall completely into them-not yet anyway-and instead twisted back around to mirror her body, until their foreheads were nearly touching, and he brushed his nose against hers.

"You made a mess." he said huskily, already breathless..

"I did," she agreed, also sounding breathless. She shimmied further along the desk, pulling him with her, "Is that a problem?"

"No, no problem." He waggled his eyebrows at her, moving his face closer to hers again, whispering kisses across her cheeks. "Wait," he said, drawing back to look in her eyes again, "Are you just using me to fulfill some kind of fantasy of being ravished on your desk?"

"Something like that," she agreed, "Is _that_ a problem?"

He chuckled, "Nope….no problem."

"Though," she said, almost thoughtfully, grasping the hem of his open shirt between her fingers, "We're both still wearing more clothes than in my fantasy."

Her open admission took him by surprise, "So you're sayin' it _is_ a fantasy….and that I've featured in it?"

She shook her head at him, a light laugh escaping her pursed lips. She pointed at his shirt. "Off!"

He grinned, "Bossy, bossy, bossy."

She threw her head back with another bark of laughter, then wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in the hair at the back of his head, winking at him as he complied with her order. "There, was that so hard?"

"Was what's that about something being _hard_?" he waggled his eyebrows and she giggled, pulling him close as he lost himself again in her kisses and laughter.

* * *

Noticing that the shadows in the room had lengthened considerably was Wyatt's next coherent thought. Placing a light kiss at her collar bone, he brought his gaze back to her face, joy filling him at what he saw there—eyes closed, lips parted in a soft smile. "Sorry about your planned order of go," he said, his voice a soft but deep rumble, "Ma'am," he added, as her eyes opened.

She laughed lightly, running a hand through his hair. "I'll let it go this time," she propped herself on her elbows, watching him as moved his weight off of her and stood, "It's a good thing I like cold pizza."

He didn't miss that she continued to watch with a lazy smile as he pulled his jeans back on and began searching the floor for his shirt amongst the other abandoned clothing items. He turned back to face her and grinned, "Something else you like besides cold pizza, professor?"

Her smile broadened then as, never breaking eye contact, she pushed herself up to sit on the edge of the desk, crossed her legs at the knee and grabbed his missing casual button-down from behind her on the desk—and slid it on. Her face suddenly serious, she moved as though to fasten the top button, but paused then, and winked at him.

He was fairly certain his brain had short-circuited. Again. _This woman—and what she did to him_.

"Were you looking for this?" she nearly purred, running her hand down the seam of his shirt.

His mouth fell open, but he didn't manage a word. Something in his expression must have delighted her, because the serious expression on her face was suddenly broken by a grin, and she giggled.

Which broke the spell, and he laughed too, and stepped back toward her, running his hand down the arm of his shirt. "Looks way better on you babydoll," he ducked and peppered her neck with kisses.

"Mmmm," she sighed, pulling him closer.

He paused in his kisses, looking at her with a quirked eyebrow. "Round two?" he asked.

And there was that giggle again, that magical one that filled him with wonder that she was with him. "Wyatt," she groused, gently pulling away and sliding to stand between him and the desk.

"Hey, I'm pretty sure you started this, ma'am," he looped his hands around her hips.

"I did, didn't I?" she said, drawing his lips against hers for another kiss. But she broke the kiss quickly this time, patted his shoulder, and said, "But we still have to get these books sorted.

"So bossy," he sighed with a wink, grabbing her sweater from where it had landed at some point during the proceedings on the far corner of the desk, and holding it out to her. "Trade?"

"I suppose so," she laughed, as she pulled on her jeans and pulled off his shirt, completing the switch, "I don't' think the sweater is your colour."

He smiled, pulling his shirt on, then somewhat reluctantly turned from her, about to go retrieve the proper box of books for the office when her hand fell on his shoulder. He turned back, surprised to see the seriousness in her eyes.

"This is real, Wyatt. Once the books are sorted," she paused then, and he watched as a small smile formed on her face, "Take me home."

 _Home_.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, returning her smile, and promising himself he'd organize those books in a record time. And he let the joy fill him again at the prospect of _home_ , with her….

Until the darkness stormed back in. Because he was supposed to tell her….he was supposed to tell her tonight….but there was no way he could do that now. And he hated himself a little bit more with that realization.

* * *

It became their pattern, their _thing_ ….her way of pulling him out of the darkness. When he became withdrawn, when he was being an ass, during the flashbacks, the nightmares that were becoming more and more common…. She would always bring him back to himself with that same mantra: _This is real, we are real_. And he tried not to think about _why_ there was even a need for her to say that— _and why all of it was happening more and more frequently as the days passed_.

But even though he tried not to think about it….he knew what was happening. His darkest compartments, the most dangerous ones….he'd lost nearly all his control of them. In one sense it startled him, since early in their relationship those compartments had been buried so deep….but in another sense….well he was self-aware enough that this loss of control didn't surprise him at all….and he recognized how inevitable it had been.

And that was how he'd found himself a few nights later, deep in thought at the kitchen sink. The dishes long since washed, but him still unmoving, he stared into the water. He'd been thinking about his history with Rittenhouse….trying to determine when he should have realized, when he might have been able to get out, and when it had all become too late. His thoughts circling again and again through his mind, he must have been there a while, because the next thing he realized was Lucy at his side, tugging cautiously at his shirt sleeve.

"Wyatt, you okay?"

He looked over at her, blinking. He tried to ground himself in the warmth of her eyes, yet he still felt adrift.

She smiled, simply placing her hand over his heart. "It's okay….this is real."

Except this time, her words that usually brought such comfort didn't help. The darkness came swirling back then, as though triggered by it's opposite that he had found in her eyes.

He quickly pulled back from her-physically and mentally.

Her eyes widened—he knew he had hurt her with his rejection. Just one more thing to add to the guilt and the pain he carried with him, he supposed.

Biting her lower lip gently, she leaned back into him—she was never one to scare easily—and she placed her hand on his arm. "Do you want to talk?"

He shook his head wordlessly.

She stared up at him for another moment, confusion showing in the crease between her eyes, and he felt ill that he was responsible for the marring of her kind expression.

She sighed slightly, "Okay. I'll give you some time….I'll be in the living room."

He was barely aware of her, as she left the room. His focus instead on the darkness and her previous words, swirling in concert in his mind. Because she was right….this was real. His betrayal of her, his lies to her….they were just as real as his caring, his faith in her, his love for her….every bit as real.

* * *

Later that night the darkness was still there, surrounding him just as surely as her arms. His betrayal of her—it had to stop. He couldn't keep doing this. But the idea of coming clean terrified him—for what it would mean to Lucy….and what it would mean to him.

Because he was no longer fooling himself. He knew that, when he told Lucy about his past….about his past with Rittenhouse….she wouldn't forgive him. He knew that with clear certainty. When he told her….that would be it for them….which meant that would be it for him.

But still, he would tell her. He owed her that much and more. He glanced over at her, looking peaceful in her sleep. Not able to help himself, he brushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and leaned over to press a kiss to where the hair had previously lain.

But not tonight. If this was going to be it….he needed another hour….another….maybe just one more day….to bask in this, to commit it to memory…..before it was gone. His heart seemed to leap into his throat as she shifted then, a murmur rising from her lips that sounded like….that was most definitely his name.

"I'm here," he said, pulling her across him until her head rested on his chest.

She smiled.

And then both of their cell phones buzzed with incoming messages from Mason Industries.

* * *

 _A/N -Well, at least our DF soldier isn't fooling himself anymore about what's at stake, and knows what he has to do. This story is going to move along a little more quickly now toward it's conclusion in a few more chapters! Huge thanks again to OnceUponAWhim for helping me with some plot points-though any word choice/spelling/typo errors are all my own._

 _Thank you so much for hanging with me on this...and please consider leaving a note in the review box!_


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